Edges in Between
by some blue december
Summary: His life is full of girls, gangs, and the grudges held against him. Priorities change over time, but it still isn't easy being Tim Shepard.
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "The Navesink Banks" by The Gaslight Anthem.

**Warning:** This story is rated T for language, violence, and sexual situations. It is also set in the same universe as all my other stories.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ONE<strong>

_You gotta keep a good eye on the winding road ahead._

You never thought a golf club could do so much damage. Sure, it's long and heavy, but you've never thought of it as a weapon before - weapons are guns and knives and fists. Golf clubs are for golfing. But your old man seems to think otherwise, and as soon as he picks it up, you know what's going on.

Your ma won't let him take the money from Curly's piggy bank. You don't think there's more than a couple of dollars in there, but that obviously doesn't matter to him - he wants the money, and he's going to do whatever it takes to get it.

Angela's crying. Four years old, and about to see her own father beat the shit out of her mother - no, scratch that. She's already seen him beat the shit out of her, but this time fists don't seem to be enough of a weapon, and as you stare wide-eyed, that's when the gold club comes in.

And there's nothing you can do. You're ten years old, a scrawny kid who doesn't even know how to throw a decent punch, and your dad is big and tough and mean. And you want to help - had tried to help - but your mom yelled at you to get away, to look after Curly and Angel, and when your mom's bleeding and crying and curled on the floor like that, you have to do exactly as she says.

Your old man brings the golf club down on your mom's back, and you shove your hand over Angela's mouth to keep in her scream. It comes out in a choked sob, and her wet face soaks your hand in seconds. Curly's quiet next to you - pale and still and just as terrified as you. You look at him and you look at Angela, and then you make yourself look at your parents.

Your mom's face is bloody, unrecognisable, screwed up in the kind of pain you can't imagine. But your dad doesn't stop, and just after a particularly harsh hit to her hip, your mom looks at you and you somehow know what to do.

One hand still over Angela's mouth, you pick her up and nudge Curly. His lips tremble when he looks at you, but he follows you and stays completely silent, out the back door. You can't do anything to help your mom by staying there and watching. You have to go next door and tell Miss Kate what's going on. She'll help your mom.

And, in the meantime, you help Angela and Curly.

xxxxx

Girls are crazy. They have pretty smiles, nice hair, and soft-looking skin, but they're damn crazy. You watch the blonde walk away, wondering how things became so screwed up, before looking at Danny.

"Did you know?"

He frowns. "Nah. I thought she was just datin' me."

You nod, because that's exactly what you had thought, too. Jeanie Peterson sure is pretty, but you and Danny had fought over her before she finally decided on you. Well, you had thought she chose you, but it turns out now she had been dating you both all this time, and you wonder why the fuck you got in to a fist fight with your best friend over some girl who definitely isn't worth it.

Jeanie Peterson makes her way back to her friends, where she giggles and gossips, and you suddenly wonder if any girls is worth it. Getting a kiss out of them might be worth the trouble of sweet-talking them, but none of them are worth getting in to it with Danny, and you know that for sure.

You have more fun walking down the street with Danny than you had at the movies with Jeanie on Saturday.

"Let's not do that again," Danny says, voicing your own opinion.

You nod, and you both turn your backs on Jeanie Peterson. "We should make some kind rule, ya know? So we never fight over some broad again."

"Like, some kind of hands-off thing?"

"Yeah. Somethin' like that."

An hour and six Cokes later, the rules for Hands Off are determined and you feel much better. Going by the grin on Danny's face, you think he might, too.

xxxxx

You lose your virginity at fourteen. She's eighteen, thinks you're sixteen, and has the longest legs you've ever seen. And she's willing to let you do things to her you have only heard about, thought about, dreamed about.

You're at some party in an almost decent neighbourhood. Some guy from school invited you, and you and your buddies weren't about to say no to the free beer. And she is all over you minutes after you walk inside - flirting, giggling, _touching_. And, hey, who the fuck are you to complain? She's sexier than any of the girls at school who give you attention, and when she drags you to an upstairs bedroom, you aren't stupid enough to say no.

The whole thing's a bit of a blur, and, you don't think you'll remember much about it afterwards. But you try to etch to memory the way she smells like lotion, the way she tastes like cheap wine, and how she feels so fucking soft you worry you might hurt her.

But then she leans into you, closes her eyes, and whispers exactly what she wants you to do to her - where she wants you to touch her. And you do every fucking thing she tells you to. You were never much for school - anything that required much concentration, for that matter - or following instructions, but when she closes her eyes and slips your hand up her skirt, you pay attention and do exactly what she says.

It doesn't take her long to stop talking - you're a quick learner; instead breathy little whimpers fall from her lips, and you stare at her, counting and recounting the sixteen freckles that scatter over her nose, and _concentrate_.

Until she goes for the button and zipper of your jeans.

When you get home, you can't remember if her name was Valarie or Veronica, but you remember those freckles.

xxxxx

Even with next-to-no experience, you make the most of what you do know. Valarie - Veronica? - showed you what you needed to know, and now you know it, you've been running it through your head since, you can't stop thinking about it … and you want to do it again.

You just have to find a girl as willing as she was.

Cathy Scott is looking good, but she's been looking at Danny all night, and you doubt he'll score with her - unlike you, he hasn't scored yet, and it's something you take possibly too much pleasure in - but you know he'll at least get to make out with her for a while. That's nothing to complain about; Cathy Scott is the prettiest girl at the party.

Wanda Hennings keeps looking at you, but you don't like her much. She's a real busy-body, and you've never been much for gossip.

But Denise Kennedy is looking mighty fine, and you think you might just have a chance. She's standing in the kitchen, looking awful good, and you have to at least give it a go. She's not sweet and pretty like Cathy Scott, but she has that same wicked spark in her eyes that Valarie - or Veronica - had, and that can't be bad.

It's not bad. A little flirting, a touching, a little convincing, and it's all worth it. She doesn't put out - you're not sure you really expected her to - but she touches you and, hell, that's never something to complain about.

xxxxx

You don't understand what's going on. One minute, your mom's telling you she's having another baby. She and your step-dad are having a baby, and isn't that just wonderful? You nod and go along with it, because she does seem happy, and - so far - Jimmy seems like an okay kind of guy.

But ever since your old man left, a lot's been left up to you. Too much was left up to you to begin with, that the truant officer came around, asking your mom why you hadn't been at school in weeks. Fighting an embarrassed blush, your mom had to explain that she had been in the hospital, and that 'there ain't no one else to look after the young'uns'.

Jimmy came along two years ago, after your mom had herself a string of assholes who didn't know how to treat her. Jimmy drinks all her beer, but that's the only complaint you've got about him. He seems okay, maybe a little loud sometimes, but okay. And, if there's really going to be another kid in the house, then you hope he stays okay.

When your mom starts screeching later that day, crying about how she's bleeding, you watch Jimmy hurry her out of the house. She has to stay in hospital for a day or two after that, and Jimmy doesn't leave her side. He calls to tell you there's not going to be a baby after all, and you don't understand it, but you figure he might stick around longer than you originally gave him credit for.

xxxxx

You're doing pretty good at this getting-laid thing. The fact that girls are growing up and being much more agreeable sure doesn't hurt. There's been three girls since Valarie/Veronica, and you want more. In fact, there's one you want in particular.

Red hair, long legs, and a secret little smile, Ruth Goodall has been tempting you all night. And you can't stop staring at her. You think about going to talk to her, but she looks your way every so often, and you decide against it. Instead, you talk to Danny and pretend not to notice her. Truth is, she crosses her legs in a way that everyone notices.

And when she finally makes her way toward your table at Buck's, you give her your best smirk, count to ten, and wait for her to say something.

She doesn't even look at you. She leans down to whisper in Danny's ear, and you can see her lips brushing his skin as she speaks. And you know it's not for your benefit - she really wants Danny.

You swallow back self-pity as she drags him to the dance floor, and remind yourself that you've been gloating for a few months now - it's only fair Danny gets to know what you've been talking about.

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><p><strong>AN:** Entire fic has been beta'd by the wonderful samaryley. As you might have guessed, this fic concentrates on certain moments in Tim's life, so don't be surprised if you see the occasional choppy chapter, large jumps through time, or scenes you might have seen in my other fics.

Feedback, as always, is appreciated.


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "The Navesink Banks" by The Gaslight Anthem.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWO<br>****December 1964**

_We were scared and tired and barely seventeen._

The first time you see Shelley Winters is a few weeks after her family moves her from River King territory to your own. She's sitting on the ledge outside a liquor store a couple of blocks from your house, feet resting against the wall, hands on either side of her. It's almost midnight, and she's alone. Not the my-boyfriend's-breaking-in-to-the-liquor-store-to-get-us-a-little-something alone, or the my-friends-have-ditched-me-and-I'm-waiting-for-them-to-come-back alone.

Just alone. Sitting outside a liquor store. In the middle of the night.

And you can't help but watch her. You're heading home, pretty fucking drunk, ready to pass out the moment your head hits the pillow, but you pause and watch her. She's shivering in the night air, looking innocent and pretty and just plain stupid, and you have the sudden urge to shake her. You don't know her, not even her name yet, but she's obviously an idiot.

Before you can even begin to think things through, you walk toward her, hard glare in your eyes.

"What the fuck are you doin'?"

She looks at you as though she never even realised you were around. "Whaddya mean?"

"You're here alone?"

"Yeah, so?"

"How'd you get here?"

She smirks. "Why, good old fashioned walking, of course."

"By yourself?"

This time she actually laughs. "My, my. Is _the_ Timothy Shepard worried about little ol' me? How … _sweet_." She grimaces. "Don't do it again; it ruins the image."

"What image?"

"My image of you. Ya know, all tough and cool and just not giving a shit."

You stare at her for a long moment, and it's only the way she avoids your gaze that lets you in on something. Her laugh seems genuine, so does the small smirk on her face, and even her teasing sounds real enough, but her eyes are downcast and … _sad_.

And that's the last thing you want. Sad girls frustrate the hell out of you, because who the fuck wants to put up with that kind of shit? You do it if it's Angela, but you're not about to piss around with some broad who's going to spend the night crying all over you if you give her half the chance.

But, even as you think that, you move to sit next to her. You dig out your smokes, light two up, and hand her one. She shakes her head.

"You don't want it?"

"I don't smoke."

You grin, lit cigarette gripped tightly between teeth, but say nothing. Somehow, you like that she doesn't smoke.

She doesn't say anything else, and neither do you. You sit in silence, listening to the sounds of a party a few blocks back, feeling the cold seep into your skin, counting the thirty-three working streetlights you can see. Every now and then you glance at the girl whose name you still don't know, eyeing her hair, her neck, her lips, until you want to kiss her and have no idea why.

Then you look away, because she looks at you and it's too fucking sad. Until she smiles.

"You don't say a lot, do you?" she asks, smile making her look like light. Nothing else, just _light_.

You shrug, not to be cool, but because you can't really think of anything to say to that. She nods, seeming to accept that as your answer.

"Aren't you wondering how I knew you who were?"

"Not really. Most people do."

"And he's modest, too."

You smirk. "Na, I really ain't."

"I believe that," she laughs. "But shoot, I s'pose everyone in this neighbourhood knows who you are, right?"

"Well, everyone your age."

"_My_ age? What about your age?"

"How old are ya, kid?"

"Eighteen."

"How old are you really?"

"Seventeen." Silence. "Fine, I'm only fifteen."

"And I'll bet only just, too."

She raises an eyebrow. "I look that young, huh?"

You give her a once-over, realising that, no, she really doesn't look that young. There's something young and innocent about her, but she's already pretty well developed where it counts. You smirk.

"Yeah, kid, you do."

She shoves your shoulder lightly. "You're a liar."

"Sure am."

"I'll be sixteen soon, but how old are you, huh?"

"Seventeen."

She nods. "And I'll bet only just, too."

"At least I ain't lyin'."

"I only moved here a few weeks ago," she says, suddenly changing the subject.

"From where?"

"Not far. We used to live down by the river."

Ah, River Kings. "You move here with your family?"

She nods, but goes silent again. Glancing at her, you notice for the first time that she's trembling. The idea of giving her your jacket crosses your mind, but you don't let most girls you date wear your jacket; you're not going to let some crazy broad who sits outside a liquor store, at midnight in November wear it.

So instead you look away and pretend you don't notice. You don't know why you don't just leave - it's not your problem that she's alone, and it shouldn't be up to you to make sure no one hurts her - but you stay where you are, ass stuck to the ledge, sitting in silence with the girl next to you.

And when she speaks again, you wish you had left when you had the chance.

"My mom died tonight," she says.

You let out a low breath, count to ten. "Why're you tellin' me this?"

"I dunno. You're kinda easy to talk to, I guess."

"Ain't ever been told that before." The exact opposite, in fact.

"Plus, you know, you seem like the kinda guy who can keep secrets."

"It's a secret that your ma's dead?" You cringe as you say it, not sure why you suddenly can't keep your trap shut. That's not a nice thing to say - hell, it's not even a nice way of saying it.

But she smiles. "It's a secret that she did it to herself."

You nod, and say nothing else. There isn't anything else you can say, but you stick around until she gets up a while later.

"My name's Shelley," she says, and takes off into the night before you can reply.

xxxxx

Your longest relationship is two months. Despite knowing how to concentrate when with a girl, not a lot of girls keep your attention for long. You get sick of their whining, their shrieking, their bitching, all because you don't put them first, you don't pay them enough attention, you don't _understand_ them. And they're right - you don't understand them.

Sometimes, being single is just plain easier. Not always as fun, but easier.

There are some girls you can stand to be around for decent periods of time, but none you'd date. Angela, for one. She whines, she shrieks, and she's one hell of a bitch, but she's your sister and you can put up with her shit for a lot longer than anyone would expect. You have to be patient when dealing with a group of guys who all look up to you, but you have to be even more patient when dealing with Angel.

Then there's Anna. She's a good kid, and you like watching her blush whenever you go around to Danny's, but that's it. She's just a kid, Danny's little sister. She's fun to tease and pick on, but you can't even notice that she's growing up without feeling awkward. Best friend's little sisters are off limits, and just realising she's getting a decent rack on her makes you feel like shit.

Maria Phillips is a good kid, too. Smart, sarcastic, and sweet all at once. You can sit with her for hours if you need to, and sometimes you really do. Crashing at Henry's isn't uncommon, and Maria staying up late to read or study is probably even more common. But she just sits quietly, sometimes talking to you without ever expecting you to reply. It's easy, and sometimes you wish Angela was more like that.

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><p><strong>AN:** Beta'd by Sam. Thanks for reading :)


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "The Navesink Banks" by The Gaslight Anthem.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER THREE<br>****January 1965**

_And my first sin was a young American girl_

Cathy Scott is definitely good at what she does. As she follows you down the stairs at Buck's, you can't keep the smirk off your face, because she might not know it yet, but you saw that Dally was out of the cooler that very day. And, if luck is on your side - as it seems to be with whatever broad Dally's dating when he gets put away - Dallas will be downstairs when you arrive.

He's not. You can't feel too disappointed; after all, you did just fuck his girl - no point in rubbing it in - but you haven't been in a decent fight in weeks. You wink at Cathy, and remind yourself to mention this encounter to Dally the next time you see him. He won't give a shit, but you know he'll see it as an excuse to fight you.

You wave goodbye to Danny and Ruth, and head outside. You're almost at your car when someone calls your name. Turning, you find yourself face-to-face with Shelley.

"Hey, kid."

"Kid?"

"Fifteen, right?"

She grins, and you're glad to see she doesn't look so sad. "Just turned sixteen. Yesterday, actually. Which makes you only a little more than a year older than me."

"Sweet sixteen and never been kissed?"

She winks at you, and you can't help but find it much more endearing than the wink you just gave Cathy. "Wouldn't you like to know."

You ignore her, because she's just a kid. "How're you holdin' up? With, you know, everything?"

"Fine," she says. You stare at her until she gives. "Okay, maybe not fine."

"Can't be easy."

"Yeah, I, uh - I had to drop outta school." She blushes when she says it, but you can't for the life of you figure out why.

"How come?"

"You know, money. I got a couple of little brothers and sisters; Dad can't afford to feed us all on his own anymore so I'm workin' at a little beauty salon downtown."

You can tell; she looks awful good. "School's a joke anyway."

She looks at you hopefully. You know she doesn't believe you, just wants to be reassured. "Yeah?"

"'Course. I dropped out, and now I'm livin' the easy life."

"Sure, just runnin' a gang, stealing, causing fights … just general breakin' the law."

You smirk and lean against your car. Kid or not, you like this broad. She's not the first to tease you, but she's the only one who does it with that hidden sadness in her eyes. That should piss you off, instead it just bugs you that something is making her sad. She's a good kid.

She's also the only one who teases you impartially. She doesn't want to fuck you, she doesn't want to slap you, she just likes talking to you.

"What're you even doin' here?" you ask. "You ain't alone again, are ya?"

"Na, I'm here with my boyfriend."

"Boyfriend, huh?"

She blushes again, but this one is different. "Yeah, Robbie Riley."

"From Brumly?"

"I guess so, yeah."

"Runnin' with gang leaders is just gonna get you in trouble, you know?"

"I should go in then. Rumour has it the Shepard Gang leader is pretty tough." She smirks at you, and turns to go.

You grab her hand, not even sure what you're doing, but you just can't help yourself. She looks at you calmly, as though she knows exactly what you're doing when you have no fucking clue. But as you lower your head, her eyes widen, and maybe she's just as confused about this as you are.

"Happy birthday, kid," you say softly, before pressing your lips to her cheek.

She stands stock still, but her cheeks are burning with a blush you know you've caused. You pull back before you do something really stupid - more stupid than kissing her on the _cheek_? - and actually kiss her. Giving you a quick glance, she grins and runs inside.

xxxxx

You're surprised when she turns up at your house a couple of weeks later. You're even more surprised to see her crying softly. She wasn't crying the night her mom died, hadn't even looked like she had been crying.

"Rob - he just …" She breaks off, wiping at her face with her sleeve and taking a calming breath. "He just dumped me."

"Oh."

"Oh? That's all you've got to say? Oh?"

You're not sure what else you're supposed to say. Angela tends to get pissed off when she gets dumped, not upset. Not just that, but you've only met this chick twice, and now she's running to you for help. You sigh. "Uh, you wanna come in?"

"No."

"Okay …"

She wipes at her eyes, calming down. "I just wanted to … I dunno, I guess I wanted someone to tell me that Rob's an idiot, that he'll wake up regretting this one day, and that I can do so much better."

"And you came to me for that? How did you even know where to find me?"

"I asked around! And obviously it was a mistake," she says, glaring.

You smirk. "Look, kid, the thing with Rob is that … well, he's a fuckin' idiot. He's gonna wake up _tomorrow_ regretting this, but who the fuck cares? We both know you can do better."

She smiles. "Thanks, Tim. That actually helps."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but only because I know you mean it." She leaves then, and you wonder how it is that she's always the one leaving you.

xxxxx

**February 1965**

She's back together with Robbie Riley, and you don't know why you care. Maybe it's because her smile isn't as warm as usual, maybe it's because you just don't like the guy, maybe it's because he can't keep his hands off her. You don't know, and you don't care much, either. You just don't like it. She's a good kid, and she was right - you did mean what you said when she turned up at your place; she can do better.

Ruth's hand is on your leg, and Danny is too busy flirting with Jeanie Peterson to care that his current ex-girlfriend is flirting with you. And, to be honest, you're too drunk to stop her. It's Valentine's Day - not that you really give a crap - every girl at this party is looking to hook up, and there was no Hands Off claim to Ruth. You know you can do better than her, but on your mind more than that is that Shelley can do better than Rob.

Danny sits opposite you at the table, and Ruth automatically latches herself on to him. There's a half-frown on his face as he slides his arm around her, but he says nothing as she leans in to whisper in his ear. You watch, eyebrow raised as a small smirk plays at his lips, but then something to your right catches your attention.

Shelley's staring at you, and when you meet her gaze, she grins and sneaks outside. You don't know if that's your cue to get up and follow, but you do it anyway. Something in your gut is making it impossible for you not to.

She's leaning against the side of the house when you find her, and the whole fucking yard lights up when she smiles at you.

"Fancy seein' you here," she says.

"What happened? I thought he dumped you?" You don't mean to say it, but it just comes out.

"He did. Then he apologised."

"And you just took him back?"

"Kind of. I mean, it just didn't seem right to not take him back after losing my -" she cuts off, and even in the dark you can see her blush.

"Huh."

"It just kinda happened," she says. "You know how it is -"

You hold your hand up, but throw in a smirk to go with it. "Trust me, kid, I do know how it is, and I don't need details."

"Yeah, well. I guess I just wanted to say thanks. You know, for what you said."

It doesn't make any sense to you that she's thanking you for that after taking him back, but you don't say anything about it. "Sure, kid."

"I thought we already established that I ain't a kid. Only a year younger than you, remember?"

"You were fifteen when I met ya; that makes you a kid forever."

"No fair." She pouts, and it does something funny to every inch of skin on your body.

"Look, are you sure getting back with Robbie was a good idea?"

You don't know why you're asking, all you know is that Shelley's a good kid, she deserves better, and you wouldn't trust Rob as far as you could throw him. But Shelley … she looks at you with nothing but defiance in her eyes when you say it, and you just know she's pissed off.

"Not that it's any of your business, but yes."

You shrug. "Just checkin'. He ain't the nicest guy around."

"And you are?"

"I'm a whole lot nicer than him."

"Yeah, you are." She smiles that sad smile you already hate to see. "I meant what I said, Tim. Thanks for what you said that day."

"Anytime."

"Probably shouldn't say things like that. I'm sure you don't give out the "anytime" offer very often, and I might just have to take you up on it."

You smirk; she's got a point there.

She stands up straight then, and walks toward you. "Anyway, I should head back inside."

"Yeah."

And then, before you can do more than watch with wide eyes, she leans up and presses her gloriously soft lips against your cheek.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Tim," she whispers in your ear, soft enough to give you chills, and then leaves.

xxxxx

**December 1965**

If there's one kind of girl you never say no to, it's whatever girl Dally's dating. Sylvia Kirk is pretty fucking gorgeous, and you wouldn't say no to her even if she wasn't Dally's girl. But she is, and that just makes her flirting all the more fun. Somewhat amusing, but you keep your amusement to yourself, not wanting her to get the wrong idea.

Fact is, she's damn good at this. You're only amused because usually you have to work at getting Dal's girls in to bed, but this is becoming easier every second. Sylvia's foot steadily strokes your calf, her eyes have a hint of something devious in them, and her blouse isn't doing a damn thing to hide what's beneath. But you think that might be the point.

You lean close. "You know, whatever it is you're tryin' to do, Dally's gonna find out about it."

Usually you wouldn't bother telling his girl that - you enjoy the shit that hits the fan far too much - but Sylvia's different. She seems like she just doesn't care … in fact, she seems like half the reason she's doing this is so Dally finds out about it.

She raises an eyebrow and confirms your thoughts. "So?"

"Just makin' sure you know what you're getting in to. That Dallas, he's sure got a temper."

"Don't I know it." And then, instead of resting her hand on your thigh like most chicks would, she places it on your ribcage, digs her nails in, and leans so close you can smell the sweet-smelling perfume she's wearing. "Tell me, Tim, is Dally finding out gonna be a problem for you?"

You smirk. "Actually, I'm kinda lookin' forward to it."

"That's what I thought."

You take her back to your place not ten minutes later, and spend a couple of hours showing her that fucking around with Dallas is a waste of time. But when she sneaks out of your bed in the morning, you know she regrets it, and that surprises you. You've fucked a lot of girls who were dating Dally at the time - Cathy Scott, Ruth Goodall, Mindy McKay - but none of them ever looked guilty.

And you're pretty sure that's why you get out of bed, wait while she uses the bathroom, and give her a ride home. It seems like this poor broad might actually care about the shithead she's dating, and for that, she deserves at least a ride home.

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><p><strong>AN:** Reviews are loved and appreciated. Deds to _K. Nefertiti_ for the insane amount of research she helped me with today.


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "The Navesink Banks" by The Gaslight Anthem.

**A/N:** This chapter ties into a bunch of chapters from _Sway_. Not enough for me to leave a list of chapters, but definitely a few lines here and there, along with some explanations that were missing in _Sway_.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FOUR<br>****January 1966**

_Kept faith in a switchblade tucked beneath my coat_

Vinnie Mort is pacing in front of you. You watch him with slightly narrowed eyes, wondering if he's about to make some kind of move, or if he's really as agitated as he seems. At least he doesn't have a weapon on him - you made sure of that before you let him near the building you carry out your gang business in - but he's still a big guy … the kind of big guy who could probably kick your ass.

You glance at Danny, who's watching Vinnie just as intently as you were, and wonder what he thinks of the situation. Vinnie turned up twenty minutes ago, pleading with you to just talk, just hear him out, and you wish you'd managed to discuss it with Danny more thoroughly than the quick 'What d'you think?' the two of you had shared.

Finally, after muttering seventeen curse words, Vinnie sits at the chair across from you. He rests his elbows on his knees, and you take in his shaking hands, heavy breathing, and dangerous eyes. You lean back, hand resting on the blade in your front pocket.

"I need your help," he says.

You glance at Danny. "With?"

"I just - I need out, man. Out of that fucking gang, out from under Rex's thumb."

Rex Hamilton. You don't really know the guy, but rumour has it he's turning the River Kings from a gang of easy-going petty thieves you could actually stand to be around, into some kind of group of thugs who are selling dope, carrying guns, and beating on their own mothers if they feel the need to do so.

It doesn't surprise you that one of his guys wants out … if anything, you expected more would leave once he started getting a little too intense. But, so far, this is the first you've heard of anyone wanting out. And even though you expected more to try to leave, you never expected any of them to come to you.

You look at Danny again, but his face is expressionless, and even after knowing him for twelve years you can't tell what he's thinking. But he's not looking at you, and you're sure that if he was worried, he'd catch your gaze and somehow let you know about it.

"Vinnie, man, you wanna tell me what's goin' on?" you ask.

He glances at you then at Danny a few times, before finally nodding. "This has gotta stay between us, though, ya dig? I can't - I just can't have this gettin' out."

You and Danny both nod, and Danny finally glances at you. You can tell he's as perplexed as you are.

"Thing is," Vinnie begins, "Rex's changed. I dunno if all this so-called power's just gone to his head, or if he's fucking crazy and it's only coming to light now, but he's not the kind of guy I wanna be workin' for."

You take a stab in the dark. "And … I am?"

"Nope. I don't want anything to do with any gangs. I just want out, but I can't do it without help."

"What kinda help?"

"A gun. For, you know, protection."

Protection. Right. Sounds like fucking bullshit to you, and Danny looks just as doubtful as you feel. You try to ignore the constant tapping of Vinnie's leg, and concentrate on what's going on.

"Okay," you say. "I can get you a gun, but I gotta know this shit's for real. I ain't about to supply you with the weapon you're gonna use against one of my boys."

"I ain't. I swear." He looks at you when he says it, and you kind of believe him. But kind of isn't enough.

"You still gotta tell me what's goin' on. You come to _me_ for a gun, and I'm not willing to give it out without knowing exactly why you suddenly hate Hamilton so much."

And then, to your horror, Vinnie lowers his head in to his hands, his shoulders begin to shake, and he's crying. You blink a few times to make sure what you're seeing is real, and then look at Danny. You can read his expression now, and he's fucking confused as hell. Scratching the back of your neck, you wait it out a few minutes.

You can't remember the last time you saw a guy cry - especially one as big as Vinnie - and it unsettles you. You've seen plenty of chicks cry - Angela, Sylvia, Maria - but this is different, and you really don't know what to do.

In the end, you grab out your smokes and light three up. Vinnie's sobs turn to sniffles, and he takes the smoke without a word, inhaling deeply. Danny takes the other one, and you take a long drag of your own. Whatever's about to go down, you know you're going to need the nicotine in your system.

Vinnie wipes a hand over his face, and meets your gaze. "He hurt my girl."

"Okay. What did he do to her?"

"He … fuck." He wipes his hand over his face again, and smokes for a long moment before continuing. "He asked me - no, _told_ me - to let him screw her. Didn't give me a fuckin' choice, just told me I had to let him do it whether I wanted to or not."

Danny mutters a curse under his breath, but you keep watching Vinnie.

"I said no, of course. And I was fucking furious, too. He just _demanded_ that I bring my girl to him, as if she's a piece of meat and I agreed that he should have a go with whoever the fuck he wants just because he's in charge. But I wasn't gonna do it, man - I _didn't _do it."

"What happened?" you ask, feeling like you might already know the answer.

"He did it anyway. Went to her house, told her I'd agreed, then he just …" He stops to light another smoke, his hands shaking the whole time. "This never would've happened if I wasn't in the fuckin' gang. She didn't want it, but he did it anyway. Christ, you should've seen her, man - she looks more beat up than I've ever looked after a fight."

You count the tapping of Vinnie's knee now, because you don't want to concentrate on what he's saying, you don't want to understand what he's saying, you don't want to think what it would be like to be in his position. Angela, Anna, Sylvia, Maria - you'd kill anyone who did this to any of them.

"When did this happen?" Danny asks.

"Just days ago. I've been workin' out what to do since, and leavin' the gang is the only thing I can think of."

You share a glance with Danny, and you know he knows as well as you do that Vinnie's lying about that. He wants the gun for revenge, and, shit, you're willing to give it.

Vinnie sighs. "And then, I dunno, just to rub my face in it, he goes and messes with my sister. Got her drunk and took advantage - I should be glad he didn't force her, too, but that was her first time, and …"

Curly talks about Anita Mort every now and then, and you know she's only his age, maybe a bit younger. "Shit."

"So … you'll help me?"

He's looking at you so intently that you're not sure you could say no even if you wanted. You nod. "Yeah, man, we'll help you."

xxxxx

"Nice scratch."

You turn to see who's talking to you, and when your eyes meet Shelley's, your stomach twists in an unfamiliar way. She's sitting on the hood of your car, one leg crossed over the other, smoking. She doesn't look so innocent anymore, and it's not just because she's smoking. She looks more like the girls you see at Buck's every weekend, not the girl you haven't seen in almost a year. Your eyes narrow.

"Scratch? You're fuckin' kiddin', right? You know how many stitches I had to get for this?"

She grins. "Nope. How many?"

You don't actually know. You'd passed out cold by the time Mrs. Phillips finished stitching you up - whether from the pain or the Jack, you don't know - and purposely hadn't bothered to find out when Mrs. Phillips took them out. It didn't matter how many stitches you had in your face; all that mattered was that you'd had them. You'd had your face sliced open by some shithead whose name you can't even remember, and it still sometimes hurt.

Sitting yourself on the hood of your own car, you pluck the smoke from her fingers, just as she brings it to her lips.

"Since when do you smoke?"

"Since I broke up with Rob."

"Which time?" You haven't seen her, but you date girls who gossip far too much.

She shrugs. "It ain't meant to be, I know that, but for some reason, I just can't get him outta my system."

"Maybe you need to move on to someone else."

"Too bad no one's offerin'."

Silence falls over the both of you, and you go to pass her back her cigarette. She waves it away with her hand.

"Keep it."

You do, and it hasn't once escaped your notice that your lips are sitting exactly where hers had been. You pretend like you don't care, that you never even realised, and take a deep drag, holding the smoke in your lungs for a long moment.

"Fancy," she says, when you blow out a few smoke rings.

You smirk. "Jealous?"

"No. I could do that."

"Go on then." You hold the smoke out to her.

She grabs at it, looking up at you from beneath her long lashes, and your stomach does that strange twisting thing again. Gaze still locked on yours, she wraps her lips around the smoke and inhales. She pauses, eyes lowering, and tries to blow a smoke ring.

She fails. "Damn."

"Try again." Just because she failed doesn't change the fact that it's the hottest thing you've ever seen. She's definitely not a kid anymore, and you know you've got Rob Riley to either thank or curse for that.

A small smirk graces her lips, and she tries again. And again. "I'm never gonna get this."

"Just keep trying." Because it never stops being hot.

She takes one last drag of the cigarette, hands it back to him, then exhales slowly. You watch the smoke disappear into the air, knowing she's watching you, but stay silent. You wonder when she broke up with Rob, why she broke up with Rob, if she will stay broken up with Rob.

Then you frown, realising you might not want to know the answer to some of those.

"I like it," she says, disturbing the silence.

You look at her; she's smiling that warm smile at you. "You like what?"

She lifts one finger to the forming scar on your face, barely touching the very bottom of it, the very same place she kissed a year ago. Her skin is soft, smooth, and you fight the urge to turn your head and capture her fingers in your mouth. "This."

"You do, huh?"

She nods, and opens her mouth to say something, but someone calls her name from the edge of the parking lot. You both look up, and you don't bother hiding the scowl when you see Rob.

"Thought you broke up with him."

Her smile is sad now, all light gone. "I also said I can't seem to get him outta my system."

"What happened to movin' on?"

"Like I said: no one's offering." She jumps down from your car and walks over to Rob.

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><p><strong>AN:** Reviews would be wonderful.


	5. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Desperado" by The Eagles.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FIVE<br>****February 1966**

_These things that are pleasin' you can hurt you somehow._

Dallas is drunk. And yelling at Sylvia. Any other broad, and someone - even you - might step in to help her out. But she's yelling right back, her nails are as sharp as claws - the skin on your back knows this from experience - and, hell, it's fucking Sylvia. You're less willing to mess with her than you are Dallas. And that's only partly because you like messing with Dallas.

Terry Armstrong is pretty fucking drunk, too. He's usually a good guy, and you thought about recruiting him for a while, but nothing ever panned out. Now that he's stumbling across the parking lot at Buck's, you're glad. And when he bends over and heaves his dinner up all over Evie's shoes, you're really fucking glad.

Robbie Riley is more than a little drunk. Hell, he was drunk when he arrived - girlfriend and a couple of his boys in tow. He had only just managed to bring his car to a halt inches from the bumper of your own car, and you think it might have been a little bit on purpose.

When something hits your right shoulder, hard enough to make you wince, you know it's Riley and you know almost hitting your car was no accident.

You turn around, hard glare in your eyes. There's an empty bottle of beer at your feet, and Riley's wearing a shit-eating grin as he stares at you. He wants a fight and he wants a fight with you … and he's more obvious about it than Dally's ever been.

Danny moves to stand behind you, and Dallas stops screaming at his girlfriend. They're there to back you up if you need it, but you won't. Not only is Riley piss-drunk, but you've fought him once or twice before, and never had any trouble kicking his ass. This time won't be any different, and you take a step forward.

"What's your fuckin' problem?"

He sneers at you. "Don't go pretendin' you don't know, fucker. You know exactly what my fuckin' problem is."

"Can't say I do." And you really are in the dark here. Your gang and the Brumly boys have always been on pretty decent terms. You might have fought Riley a couple of times, but that's no different than fighting Dally. There's no real beef there, and you really don't know what the fuck his problem is.

And Riley doesn't seem to care enough to answer. He takes a step forward, whips his blade out of his back pocket, and flicks it open with the accuracy of someone who _isn__'__t_ as drunk as he is. You sigh, reach back for your own blade, and step forward. You don't know what the fuck this is about, but it doesn't look like you're getting out of it any time soon.

"Robbie, stop." A voice calls from near the building.

You glance over and see Shelley standing near the doorway, looking shocked and pissed off at what she's just walked in on. Your gaze stupidly lingers on her legs, and that's all Riley needs. He lunges for you, and slices your arm open before you realise what the fuck is going on.

"Motherfucker." You're too angry to piss around with the blade. They might do more damage, but that's not the point. You want whatever damage gets done to this bastard to be done with your bare hands, and you throw your blade to the ground.

You charge at him, and he trips over his own feet to get away from you. Scoffing in disgust, you grab his wrist and squeeze until he gives a small yelp and drops the blade. You smirk at him, knowing this is going to go your way pretty damn fast. He glares back and begins to say something, but you punch him in the mouth before he can get a word out.

Watching the blood drip from his mouth, you don't stop there. He tries to fight you back, but he's useless in the state he's in, and all of his boys have disappeared inside. You sucker punch him, and he doubles over in pain, but before you can hit him again, he rushes at you, tackling you to the ground.

It seems to take out all of his energy, though. You roll around with him, getting in three times as many punches as he does, and all the while he's calling you a fucker and telling you to stay the fuck away. You still don't know what he's talking about, but you aim a heavy punch to his noise, hoping it's enough to shut him up.

It is. You stand, and as your heart rate returns to normal, you begin to notice the pain in your arm. But you don't look at it, because you know that seeing the damage will just make the pain worse. You might be tough, and you definitely kicked Riley's ass, but you're not so cool you can't feel pain.

There's a small circle gathered, and as you wipe sweat away from your brow, you catch Shelley staring at you. She doesn't look pissed off, or frustrated, or upset - she just looks calm, if not slightly amused. And she stares at you; she doesn't look at her boyfriend who's still lying on the ground, she doesn't look at Riley's boys who have finally made their way outside, and she doesn't look at the girl who's trying to talk to her. She just stares at you.

And you finally get it.

"Oh, Tim, are you okay?" Sylvia fusses over you, but you know it's more for Dally's benefit than your own, and because of that, you throw him a smirk. He flips you off, and you look back at Shelley.

You've never even properly kissed the girl, but Robbie Riley seems to think you're getting far too close to her anyway. You lick your lips, tasting blood, and give her a quick grin. Then, before she can change her mind and decide to yell at you, you head inside.

xxxxx

Your arm is killing you, and the handful of paracetamol Buck gave you has done nothing to help the pain. You don't need stiches, though, and you've got to at least be grateful for that; finding someone to stitch you up in a place as unclean as Buck's isn't an inviting thought. But all you have to keep the bleeding at bay is your own T-shirt that you've taken off to wrap around your arm.

Lying back on the bed, you consider going home. You don't want to be here, but after the fight going on as you left home that night, you don't much want to be there, either. It'll be over by now, but you know it'll just start right back up again first thing. You'll get a better night's sleep at Buck's, even with Dally and Sylvia in the room next door.

A knock on your door wakes you from a doze. You blink a few times, wondering if you imagined it, but it comes again, quick and quiet. Blade back in hand, you get up and open the door slightly, only half-surprised to see Shelley standing there.

"Hey." She smiles at you, but it's not the smile you remember. Then she seems to realise you're half-naked and swallows hard.

"Hey, kid. You here to assess the damage? Gonna let your boyfriend know whether he made his point or not?"

"He had no point," she says. "He was just talkin' shit."

"That right?"

She shrugs, and there's a light blush to her cheeks. "You gonna let me in?"

"You _want_ to come in?"

"Yeah." She holds up the cloth and bowl you hadn't noticed before. "Someone's gotta clean your cut."

"Who says there ain't already someone in here to do it for me?"

"There's not." She sounds awful sure of herself, but her eyes narrow.

You smirk, and open the door for her. "Come on in."

She sits on your bed for the night, making herself more than comfortable, and you once again don't know whether to thank or curse Robbie Riley for helping her grow up. When she looks up at you, offering you that warm smile you do remember, you decide to curse him. And beat the shit out of him again next time you see him.

"Sit down. I can't clean your arm if you're just gonna stand there all night."

You sit, relaxing against the lumpy mattress, and let Shelley pull away your bloody T-shirt. She grimaces at the blood on her hands, but throws the T-shirt to the floor and starts on your arm anyway.

"You're lucky he was so drunk," she says. "This could've been much worse otherwise."

"I doubt that."

"He ain't that bad, ya know?"

"At fighting? Shit, kid, he ain't a good fighter, and no one's gonna tell me otherwise. He got in a lucky shot with his blade tonight, and that's it." You leave out the fact that he got in his lucky shot because you were too busy looking at his girlfriend. His girlfriend who's in your room, on your bed. You lie back, resting your free arm behind your head. "This couldn't have been any worse."

"I didn't mean fighting. I just mean in general. He's not a bad person."

"Oh yeah? Where is he now, then? 'Cause he don't seem like the kinda nice person that'd let you outta his sight to fix up the guy he just fought."

"He's sleeping."

"Sleeping?"

She shrugs and avoids your gaze. "Passed out, I guess."

"Well. I'd say I'm sorry I put an end to you getting laid tonight, but I ain't."

"Didn't think you would be," she says, eyes lingering on your bare chest.

"That right?"

"Yeah, well … we're friends, right?" She waits for you to nod before she continues. "And friends don't want friends to be with people they think are no good. You obviously think Robbie is no good."

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

Actually, all you really implied is that you don't think much of Riley and that you're glad she won't be screwing him tonight. Fuck, you might have only implied it, but it sure is true. Blinking up at her, you watch as she produces a bandage out of nowhere and begins wrapping it around your forearm.

"I just think he's no good for you," you say. You're starting to feel sleepy - what with the fight, the handful of pills, and the girl looking after you - and when you feel sleepy, you tend to get a little too honest. "You can do better."

"Ya really think so?"

"I really do."

She's finished with your arm, but her hands are still holding yours. Her chest rises and falls with each deep breath she takes, but she still doesn't look at you. Fighting a yawn, you sit up and she finally meets your gaze.

"I should go."

"Probably."

She doesn't make any move to leave, your hand is still in hers, and you just want to kiss her. You know she'll leave right away if you do it, but you don't care - screw getting laid; you just want to press your lips against hers. Just this once.

Instead, you slowly let her hands slip away from your own. She's blushing, her hands are shaking, and she won't look at you again.

"Sleep well, Tim."

"Yeah. Enjoy not getting laid." The sudden anger you feel confuses you.

She smirks. "Right back at ya." Then she gives you that smile just before she leaves, and you smirk back. You can't stay angry at the kid when she does that, and you tiredly wonder if Riley's anger at you was more justified than you thought.

xxxxx

**April 1966**

"I wanna call Hands Off."

You look at Danny, surprised. The two of you have dated the same girls, kissed the same girls, fucked the same girls, and it's never mattered, because it was fun, because you have the same taste, because there was always that one rule.

If someone calls Hands Off, then whatever girl they mention is out of bounds to the other until otherwise stated. Unless the hands-off rule is called, all girls are available, and there are no hard feelings when the better man wins. You've never called any girl's name, and, until now, neither has Danny. Even Ruth is free game when he isn't with her.

"Really?" You can't help but smirk at the idea of Danny actually getting serious about someone.

"Yeah, on Mary-Louise, man."

"Mary-Louise? I thought you were takin' out Kathy this weekend?"

Danny shrugs. "She's not over Mathews, and Mary-Louise … well, I haven't been able to stop thinkin' about her for an awful long time."

"Okay." You nod, not surprised. Mary-Louise is blonde, sweet, and pretty damn cute. Exactly Danny's type. And he's spent months flirting with her whenever he got the chance. You figure he must really like her if he's bringing your sixth-grade pact into play.

He grins. "Okay. Good."

Taking a sip of your beer, you briefly wonder if you should call Hands Off on Shelley.

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><p><strong>AN:** Reviews are always appreciated :)


	6. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Desperado" by The Eagles

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><p><strong>CHAPTER SIX<br>****April 1966**

_Why don't you come to your senses?_

You don't fucking believe it when you see it, but there he is, walking toward you, as if everything that happened all those years ago is nothing. It's not the first time he's turned up, either, and you're not sure it'll be the last, but it's not going to be any different - that you're really fucking positive of.

"What're you doin' here?"

He looks at you calmly. "I got a right to see my kids, Tim."

"Like hell you do."

"Now, listen here -"

You don't. It's the same conversation the two of you have every couple of years when he turns up, claiming he wants to see Curly and Angela, he wants to make up for what they saw, he wants to be a part of their lives. It hasn't once escaped your notice that you're never a part of those empty promises, but you don't care about that.

What you care about is keeping the fucker away from your kid brother and sister.

"No, you listen." You stand up from the front porch, liking the fact that you're a little bigger than him, but trying to keep your voice low; Angel's right inside. "You stay the fuck away from those two. They don't need a shit-head like you tryin' to push your way in to their lives."

"They're my kids. I got a right to see them."

"You ain't had that right since they had to watch you beat ma until she passed out. Now get the fuck outta here."

The front door opens behind you before he can reply, and your whole body tenses.

"Tim?" Angela asks. "What's goin' on?"

"Nothin'. Go back inside."

She says nothing, and you look past your old man to see Curly ambling down the sidewalk. Well, that's just fucking perfect. Teeth clenched, you count the uneasy seconds that tick by. You only get to fifteen when your old man takes a step back. You look at him, and he looks so fucking scared of his own kids that you want to hit him. You make a fist, ready to do so if he so much as opens his mouth to speak to one of them.

"Hey, what's goin' on?" Curly asks, exactly as Angela had.

You say nothing, Angela says nothing, and your old man says nothing. After a few deathly-quiet seconds, he begins to back away. You don't break eye contact until he turns and heads for his car. Motherfucker.

"Who was that?"

"It was no one, Angel."

She waits a few beats, before heading back inside. You can tell by her light footsteps that she believes you, but you look at Curly to see his reaction. He's staring after the car that's disappearing around the corner, then he meets your gaze.

"Tim, was that …"

"It was no one, Curly."

He nods. You can see he doesn't quite believe you, but he looks relieved at not having to worry about it. "Okay. Cool."

You sink back on the porch steps when Curly heads inside, and you're fixing for a fight. Or a drink. Or and fight and a drink. You and your old man have the same fucking conversation every damn time he shows up, but not once have Curly and Angela turned up to witness it. You hate how fucking close they both got to realising who the fuck-up standing in their front yard was.

Standing up - feeling pretty fucking certain you don't have to worry about your old man for at least another year - you head off to find Dally and see if you can talk him in to going to Buck's with you … or, if it comes to it, piss him off enough to start a fight with you.

xxxxx

You're pretty drunk. That wasn't quite the plan when you talked Dally in to coming to Bucks - not that it took much to twist his arm - but it's better than not being drunk. After the run-in with your dad, a drink had seemed like a good idea. And that one drink turned into three turned into you've officially lost count.

But at least you feel better for it. And you're sure as hell not complaining.

You make your way down the street, Dallas ambling along next to you. The plan is to head back to your place, where you know you have more alcohol stored … fuck, somewhere. It's still early on a Tuesday night, but Buck threw the two of you out twenty minutes ago, and you just want another drink.

"Ya think Syl'll be pissed if I show up drunk?" Dally asks, and you smirk.

"Dunno. Maybe I should go find out."

"Fuck you, man."

You don't answer, because you can't think of a good comeback. In fact, the only thing you can think to say is -

"Nah, fuck you."

Dally chuckles. "I don't think it's even seven o'clock , Shepard, and you're already shitfaced."

"You ain't much better."

"At least I ain't stumbling my way home."

You catch yourself as you come too fucking close to proving Dally right and tripping over the curb. He snickers, but you just smirk.

"I could still kick your ass."

He pauses. "You wanna find out?"

You kind of do, partly because you're still itching for a fight, partly because Dallas always manages to piss you off somehow, and partly just for fun. You look at Dallas; he's smirking at you, slouched and ready for whatever move you make. You smirk right back and take a step away from the curb, but a voice stops you from doing any more than that.

"Tim?"

Dally raises an eyebrow, and you glance across the street to see Shelley, and good fucking Lord she looks good. You give Dallas a grin, say, "Maybe next time," and cross the street. And, of course, he follows.

"Hey, baby," you say, giving her a slow once-over. Only then do you notice the kid standing with her, holding her hand. A boy, maybe six years old.

"Baby? That's an improvement over kid."

"Yeah, you ain't lookin' like much of a kid these days." And with that short, long sleeve dress she's wearing, she really fucking doesn't. You glance down, taking in the amount of stocking-covered leg she's showing.

"Nice of you to finally notice." She glances at Dallas. "Hey, Dally."

He nods, and you have to assume he knows her through Sylvia. There's no way Shelley would go with a guy like Dally … except that she went with Rob from Brumly.

You step closer. "Where you headed, baby?"

"Home."

"My home?"

"And what exactly would I do at _your_ home?"

"As if you don't know."

She glances at Dallas again, then meets your gaze. "You serious?"

You place a hand on her waist and step closer. "Would I joke about this?"

"I've got my kid brother with me, Tim."

"Drop him at home."

"I - I can't."

"Sure you can." You pull her close, hands wrapped tight around her, and her brother's hand falls from her grip.

"Tim, stop."

You can't. There's this tiny feeling in your stomach, a niggling that you're fucking things up awful bad, but you just can't stop. You wanted to fight, and you wanted to drink. Now you just want to fuck the girl in your arms, knowing damn well that will be a better release of tension than anything else. You lean down to whisper in her ear.

"C'mon. I've wanted to fuck you for months now. Ditch the kid and come home with me."

"Jesus Christ, Tim, you're drunk?"

"A little."

She struggles against you, but you hold tight.

"Let me go."

"Come home with me."

"No. Now let me _go_."

"S'just one night, babe. Relax a little."

She stops struggling, the anger leaves her eyes and she looks … hurt? "Just one night, huh?"

You know you've said the wrong thing, but you can't figure out why. "Yeah," you say. "I'm, you know, offerin'."

She looks like you've slapped her, when, really all you've done is imitate her words from the hood of your car.

"Let me go."

You press kisses to her neck, and you know you're not imaging the breathy little sigh she gives. When you pull back and smirk at her, you see lust hidden behind her anger and hurt. Yeah, that's definitely hurt, but there's a lot of anger, too, and you're suddenly worried.

The kid next to her tugs at her dress. "Shelley? Can we go home now?"

"Yes," she grits out. Her nails dig into your arm until you wince and pull back. "Yes we can."

You take a step back and stand next to Dallas, watching as Shelley takes her brother's hand again. Before she turns to leave, she leans close enough to whisper without her brother hearing.

"You're both fucking assholes."

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><p><strong>AN:** Thanks for reading. Short chapter, but reviews would make my day :)


	7. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E Hinton, or "Desperado" by The Eagles.

**A/N:** For those who want to know, this chapter loosely ties into chapter 24 of _Born to Run_, and a line here and there from a couple of one-shots.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER SEVEN<br>****April 1966**

_She__'__ll beat you if she__'__s able_

You figure her and Rob must've broken up again, because there's no way any sane guy, who _was_ dating her, would let her out alone, in that skirt. That short, black, you-desperately-want-to-run-your-hands-beneath-it skirt. It rides up a little every time she moves, walks, fucking breathes, and you think it's really fucking unfair of her to wear it when you're not even allowed to touch.

And you want to touch. You've thought about kissing her before, but now you want to kiss her, touch her, fuck her - all things you've only let yourself think about while drunk before. When she walked into the Curtis house in that damn skirt, you quickly decided that her not being a kid anymore was something you needed to _thank_ Rob fucking Riley for.

You can tell she's making a statement with her skirt. She's single, not Rob's girl anymore, and she's not afraid to let people know it.

And you wish you could stop staring, but you just fucking can't. She looks good, so fucking good with her long legs, nice tits, and that smile. That smile that makes things warm and bright and everything just fucking right in the world. No girl's ever made the world seem right, not since your ma, and that was years and years ago. But Shelley … she makes you want things you know you probably shouldn't want. And you're not just thinking about sex.

But then your mind goes back to that night on the street, and you once again wish that you could have woken up the next morning not remembering anything. And you take another long drink of beer, knowing you need to be drunker to be having these sappy, bullshit thoughts.

Leaning against the wall near the door, you watch Shelley. She's avoided you all night - pretends she doesn't see you, ignores you if you end up near her, refuses to meet your gaze - and you can't fucking blame her, not after the way you acted. It wouldn't surprise you if she never speaks to you, looks at you, acknowledges your presence again. And you can't blame her, but shit … you don't have to like it.

And, to make matters worse, while you've been drooling over her all night long, she's been hanging all over Sodapop Curtis.

Except now. Curly took off with Anita Mort a while back, Randle's trying to talk Anna into dancing with him, Henry and George are flirting with a couple of girls you don't know, and you want some kind of action with Shelley. You're about to head over to where she's standing in the kitchen when she comes your way.

And walks right past you.

You reach out and grab her arm. "Hey."

"Whaddya want, Tim?"

"Ain't even gonna say hi, huh?"

She shrugs. "Wasn't plannin' on it."

"C'mon, kid, you can't stay mad at me forever."

"Back to kid now, are we?"

For a long moment, you don't know what to say, and take a quick glance around the room. Some slow song is playing, and Randle's somehow managed to talk Anna - _his girlfriend__'__s cousin_ - into dancing with him. You look back at Shelley, figuring if Randle can manage that then you should be able to get _something_ out of her.

"You wanna dance with me?"

She stares at you as if she can't believe what you're asking, and then peels your fingers away from her arm. "No, Tim, I really don't."

You watch her walk outside, willing yourself to hate her with every fucking step she takes, and when she reaches Sodapop, slips her arms around his waist, and kisses him, you think you might just manage.

xxxxx

You see her every now and then after that. With Sylvia in the Dingo, flirting with Soda Curtis at Buck's, getting back together with Rob. It doesn't last long that time, and you know it's because Rob finds out she fooled around with Curtis. Serves the fucker right, after the amount of times he screwed around on her.

And then you don't see her much at all. Ruth thinks she's knocked up, Danny's grandpa dies, and your mom gets sicker. Shelley, despite being someone you think about far too much, becomes the farthest thing from your mind for a while.

You drink, you fights, you fuck. Dally helps out pretty well with all three of those - winning money for Buck who likes to celebrate by buying booze, pissing you off on purpose so you have an excuse to hit him, getting himself locked up for the night and leaving his girl wanting company. He can be a real decent guy when he's not thinking about it.

xxxxx

**May 1966**

Only an idiot gets himself locked up early Friday evening, and it's never been a surprise to you that Dally's a fucking idiot. You don't know, or care, what's he's in for this time - mostly because you know it'll be something stupid - but when Sylvia stumbles into Buck's so late Saturday night that it's actually Sunday morning, you curse that so-called boyfriend of hers.

Because when she sees you, she avoids your gaze and heads straight for the bathroom. But you're not stupid like Dal, you're not unobservant like Curly, and you sure as shit aren't going to avoid whatever it is Sylvia thinks she's avoiding.

Normally you wouldn't care, but this is Sylvia. You can count on one hand the girls you really care about, and, somehow, Sylvia's become one of them. You don't want to date her, you barely even want to be friends with her, but you want her to be okay. She doesn't have it easy at home - never has - and she needs someone when Dal's not around.

Dal's not around now, and you can tell she needs someone by the spooked look on her face when she walked in to Buck's.

The bathroom door's not locked, so you know she's waiting for you. Her back is to you, hands clenched to the sink, and head lowered. When you close the door behind you, she meets your gaze in the mirror.

"Fuck." You step closer, staring at her black eye. "Who the fuck did this?"

"It don't matter."

"The hell it doesn't. Was it your old man?"

She shakes her head and you're actually surprised. One particularly drunk night together, she had spilled the beans on how her dad used to get a little heavy-handed toward her mom.

"Who did this, Syl?"

She turns to face you. "Promise you won't go causin' any trouble?"

"Nope."

"Then I ain't gonna tell ya, because I really don't need anymore."

"Fine." You step back toward the door. "Then I ain't keepin' ya company tonight."

She scowl at you, but says nothing. And that's fine with you, because she's so damn predictable that -

"Wait." Her hand brushes the length of your arm. "Just wait."

"Gonna tell me who did this to ya?"

Those red lips of hers purse in annoyance, but you don't back down. Finally, she nods. "Okay. But in the morning, yeah? 'Cause I know that if I go blabbing tonight, you'll go makin' all kinds of trouble tryin' to defend my honour when all I really want you to do is take me back to your place and help me forget."

It sounds like a decent trade. You're pissed off about someone messing up that pretty face, but so long as she's not up before you in the morning you'll find out who did it. And you plan on making sure you're awake before her, because whoever did this deserves to get his head kicked in.

You smirk, slipping your hand around her neck. "I get to beat the shit out of whoever did this, so long as I get laid first?"

She licks her lips. "Somethin' like that. Whaddya think?"

"I think it's time to go."

You wake before her in the morning, and figure you have time for a quick shower before she wakes, but she's gone when you get back to your room. Scowling, you head downstairs only to find her pouring Curly a glass of juice. She's smiling at him, and he's giving her a fucking dopey look in return. You roll your eyes, but face Sylvia.

"Give me a name."

She looks you dead in the eye. "Rex Hamilton."

After the shit that fucker pulled with Vinnie Mort's girlfriend and sister, you're not sure how willing you are to go after him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Reviews please me :)

Chapters are short, I know, but there is a weird plan for which scenes are posted together, lol.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Desperado" by The Eagles.

**A/N:** For those playing along, this chapter vaguely ties into _Bitter Form of Refuge_, and chapter one of _Sway_.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER EIGHT<br>****September 1966**

_And you__'__re losing all your highs and lows_

Steve Randle's standing in front of you, drunk off his ass, babbling some shit you can barely understand. And he looks like a fucking mess - red eyes, messy hair, unbuttoned shirt. You know you and everyone else from the rumble probably looks like shit, too, but this is something else. But then his voice gets real low, real serious, real distinct, and what he's saying starts to make sense without making any fucking sense at all. And it makes you sick.

You never knew the Cade kid well, but Dallas is - no, Dallas _was_ …

You don't even know what Dallas was. Randle's words make sense, but you can't comprehend them, and you leave him and Danny on the front lawn, and go inside. It's too fucked up, one of those things that'll never quite sink in, because you just can't figure out how the fuck this happened.

Anna's standing in the kitchen, staring out the window, fingers drumming against the counter she's next to. She doesn't even glance at you as you come in, and you sit at the table, brain automatically counting the noise coming from her fingers.

You get to 194 before she stops and stares at you.

"What's goin' on?"

"Dally's dead. And Johnny."

"_Dallas_?"

You nod. She looks a little faint, but you continue. "Steve wanted …" You don't know if you should be telling her this - Danny will be pissed - but you do it anyway. "He wanted to see you. Said he needed to see you. He was pretty wasted, but, well, he just didn't look so good."

Tears fill her eyes, and you're glad when she turns away. The front door slams closed as Danny comes in, and he sits himself at the table, looking as sick as you feel. Neither of you say anything, but Anna mumbles something about needing to leave. You don't pay any attention to her, or to Danny as he tries to stop her.

Dallas is dead. You aren't surprised about the kid; Johnny was pretty fucking bad off when you saw him that day, but all Dally had was a burned arm and a bad attitude. Hell, he always had a bad fucking attitude, and sure it was worse than ever because of how hurt Johnny was, but … _shit_.

You never thought he'd do this, and you know that he knew exactly what he was doing. Dally wasn't stupid enough to pull an unloaded gun on cops unless he wanted to get something out of it. You just never thought what he wanted was to be dead.

You look at the muffin tray in front of you, count all twelve muffins, all fifty-three chocolate chips you can see, all seventeen little bits of burned muffin that landed where they weren't supposed to as Anna scooped the mixture into the tray.

Your hands shake; you never thought Dally would want to be dead, and, unexpectedly, you think of Shelley and her mom.

xxxxx

**October 1966**

Shelley is at Buck's, but the girl you can't stop looking at is Sylvia. Well, that might not be entirely true because your gaze sure drifts to Shelley more often than you'd like, but it's Sylvia who holds your attention. Sylvia and her blood-shot eyes, her stumbling feet, her half-unbuttoned blouse. You frown when Ricky Bolton slips another button undone, wondering why she's letting a bastard like that touch her.

But you know. You know she's lonely, she's missing Dallas, she's fucking miserable. And what you hate most is that there's nothing you can do but watch her and hope like hell you can get in the way before she makes a real fucking mistake and goes upstairs with Bolton. That kid is nothing but trouble, and you and Sylvia both know it.

Danny's watching, too, small frown on his face. You know he hates Bolton, you know he doesn't hate Sylvia, so you know he'll have your back if it comes to dragging her away from the creep who's attached his hands to her waist. You hope it doesn't come to that, hope Sylvia has more sense than that, but you also wouldn't mind getting in a punch or two on Bolton.

You look back at Sylvia, but now she's looking at you and not paying Bolton the slightest bit of attention. She winks when you catch her gaze, but you're not sure how to reply. She's been a disaster since Dallas died, and you've only seen her from afar since the night of his funeral, but if you can help her then you will.

She bounds over to you when you nod at her. She teeters on her heels as she comes to a stop next to you, and you reach out to steady her.

"Hey, Tim, been a while."

"How you doin', Syl?"

"Well, now, that all depends, ya know?" she sits herself on your lap, arms looped loosely around your neck.

"That right?"

She pouts. "You ain't gonna tell me you haven't missed me, are ya?"

You haven't, but she's right - you're not going to tell her that. "How about layin' off the booze for the rest of the night, huh?"

"How about takin' me home and helpin' me forget why I'm drinkin'?"

"Syl, c'mon now."

It's not the nice smell of her hair, the way her lips press against your neck, or the feel of her body against yours that changes your mind. It's the desperation in her voice as she murmurs softly into your skin. "Please?"

You look at Danny over her shoulder, and he's giving you a look you can't decipher. Normally you wouldn't ask his opinion when it came to Sylvia - or most girls you take home - but this situation is difficult and uncomfortable and you don't want to do something you shouldn't. Problem is, you're not sure whether you should or shouldn't.

"It's gonna happen no matter what - better it be you than someone else," he says.

You know he's right, and as much as you like spending the night with Sylvia, there's a feeling inside of you that just knows this isn't right. Helping her to her feet, you hope she passes out before anything happens, but if she doesn't, then you'll just have to be as nice as you can.

xxxxx

**November 1966**

Like most houses in the neighbourhood, the door to Danny's is never locked. It comes in handy when you don't want to go home, when you've been in a fight, or when you just need a place to chill out. Or, in this case, you spent the night screwing around with Mindy McKay, a girl whose brother runs with the Brumly boys, and you just want to hang out before going home. Maybe nap on the couch, or - if you're lucky - con Anna into cooking you some breakfast.

And not pretend like you're there to find out how Danny's date with Shelley went. You figured he would go to the Brumly party with you and the guys, but when you brought it up, he said he had a date.

"Takin' Shelley out," he said.

"Shelley Winters?"

"Yeah, man. Hung out with her a little last weekend, and called her the other night."

Last weekend. You got yourself locked up for disorderly behaviour outside the bowling alley last weekend, and Danny was flirting with Shelley.

You should have called Hands Off when you had the chance.

You turn the knob to the door, push it open, and stop short. Shelley's right there, standing in the hallway, staring at you. You stare right back, not sure what else there is to do, not even sure what the fuck is going on. You haven't seen her in over a month, and you haven't talked to her since that night at the Curtis place.

Finally, she looks away, blushing. Before you can take in any of the skin showing, she quickly does up the top few buttons on her blouse, and you just know that you never hated her. No matter how hard you tried.

And you realise, really fucking quickly, just what the fuck is going on.

You smirk, because it's all you can do not to grimace.

"Well, well."

She rolls her eyes. "Shut up."

"How did this happen?"

"We've been hanging out a bit."

"Huh."

"What? You got a problem with this like you did with Rob and Soda?"

You can't help but glare at her, and a really tiny part of you wonders if that's why she did it, if this is all to make you jealous.

Then Danny comes out of his bedroom, wearing only a pair of jeans, looking like he's had the fucking night of his life, and Shelley gets that same small smile on her face that she used to give you, you have the sudden urge to hit your best friend. To throw him up against the wall, and just beat the shit out of him until he can't fucking breathe, and never in your life have you felt like that. Not about Danny.

"Hey, man," he says. "You hungry?"

You nod, and very slowly begin to count to ten. You don't follow him or Shelley into the kitchen until you reach fifty, but neither of them notice. By the time you walk into the kitchen, Shelley's leaning against the counter, and Danny's whispering in her ear, and she's still smiling that smile.

It makes you fucking sick, but you say nothing and take a seat at the table.

Anna walks in then, far too fucking cheerful for eight in the morning - for what's going on in the kitchen. You watch her grab out eggs, milk, butter, and wonder how she can be so fucking uncaring.

And then you look at Danny, who's now sitting opposite you, with his arm across the back of Shelley's seat, and you don't hate him so much anymore. Because he looks happy, and you haven't seen him look like that in a long time. Ignore the fact that his grandpa died, that his mom's a fucking bitch, and that he's pretty much the only one looking after his sister - he's still had a shitty year.

He might never have called dibs on her, but Ruth still fucked him over in a really shitty way.

So you say nothing, you do nothing, you try to think nothing. You're jealous, something you're not sure you've ever felt before, and you hate yourself for it. You never called anything on Shelley, and whether he knew about this little back and forward thing the two of you had going on or not, Danny had every fucking right to go after her.

And, whether you like it or not, they both look pretty fucking happy. That's got to be a good thing …

xxxxx

**December 1966**

You've hated Rex Hamilton since the day you and Vinnie had that chat. Vinnie's plan didn't work out so well, and after hearing what Hamilton did to his sister and girlfriend, you tried to help the guy out as much as you could, but the fuzz picked him up in the end. The fuzz got Vinnie, and Hamilton somehow knows it's you and Danny that supplied him with the gun.

Seeing Danny drag Vinnie out of the Dingo that day might have something to do with that, but you're not going to blame Danny for that - hell, you would've done the same thing. Knowing what Hamilton's capable of, you'll do fucking anything that isn't helping him out.

Problem is, he knows. He knows you supplied the gun, he knows Danny helped Vinnie out that day, and he knows you hate his fucking guts. And he's slowly doing his best to get on your nerves.

Leaning against your car, watching Danny fight some scrawny kid from River Kings, you make a point to keep Angela far out of that fucker's reach.

You're surprised it's taken this long, but you suppose he wanted you to think everything was fine, that he wasn't going to try and get any retribution. He didn't get shot that day at the Dingo, but his sister did. She's going to be fine, but as far as he's concerned, that's yours and Danny's fault just as much as it is Vinnie's.

He's been biding his time, letting you think it's all over and done with. But you know better - you've always known better - and now that his boys are showing their face in your turf far too often, you know you might have some trouble on your hands in the months to come.

Hell, if you hadn't known it before, you sure as hell do now. Hamilton isn't someone you want to get into it with any time soon, but you have no problem putting his boys in their places. Especially after finding out what a couple of them were calling Angela and her friends a few days back.

You don't know if the kid Danny's fighting is the same one who was hassling Angel, but you can't keep the smirk off your face either way. Not only does the guy deserve to have his head beat in for the shit he said about Mary-Louise - a genuinely nice girl - but Danny's still dating Shelley. He's dating Shelley, and fighting for some other broad's reputation.

You knew there was a reason he never withdrew the hands-off rule on Mary-Louise. You know he still cares about Mary-Louise. You know he isn't too serious about Shelley.

It makes you feel better.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Excuse any mistakes. Reviews are appreciated :)


	9. Chapter Nine

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Desperado" by The Eagles.

**A/N:** Hints at a chapter of _Sway_, and my one-shot _Doin' Time_.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER NINE<br>****January 1967**

_But you only want the ones that you can't get._

You're just leaving the Dingo when you see her. You want to leave, you really fucking do, but instead you lean against your car, light up a smoke, and wait. It's fucking cold out, snow slowly falling, but she's seen you, she's heading your way, and she's looking really fucking good. And she smiles at you, making you warm.

"Hey."

"How's it goin'?"

She shrugs. "I s'pose you heard about me and Danny?"

You see Danny every day; of course you did. But you also heard about her and Soda Curtis making out at Buck's a few nights ago, so who the fuck cares?

"You ain't gonna try getting me to tell you he's an idiot, are ya? That he'll regret it, and that you can do better?"

She looks pleased you remember that conversation, and you wonder what the fuck you're doing by saying something so stupid, but she shakes her head.

"Na, not about Danny."

"Right."

"Yeah." She pauses, looking awkward, and you wait for her to leave like she always does. "You about to leave?"

"Was plannin' on it."

"Well, how d'you feel about stayin' a while instead? Maybe buyin' a recently-dumped girl a Coke?"

You flick ashes away, pondering her words. All you can really think about is that this is the first time she's happily made conversation with you since April - since you tried to get her to dance with you. Sure, she talked a little while dating Danny, but not much; you were never around each other enough for there to be more than a _hey, how's it going?_

But now she's talking to you of her own accord. In fact, she chose to come to you, and as much as you tried to hate her after that party, you really fucking hope this means she's not still pissed at you.

"Yeah, okay." You throw away the rest of your smoke, and indicate for her to go ahead of you.

The Dingo's pretty empty. It's a Sunday evening, and the only people inside that you know or like well enough to pay attention to are Henry and Anna. You wonder if Anna will tell Danny that you're here with Shelley, but figure it won't matter too much either way. She's available and Danny knows it.

She leads you to a booth, and you slide in opposite her. And wait. The first time she met you she commented that you don't say a lot, but right now, you just really don't know what to say.

"I heard about Curly. Is he gonna be okay?"

You nod. "He'll be fine." He's actually had the shit beaten out of him, and this whole thing with the River Kings is causing you some serious problems, but she doesn't need to know about any of that.

"When does he get out of juvie?"

"Not for a while. Couple of months, I think."

"Right."

The waitress comes to take your order, and you both ask for Cokes. When she's gone, you jump right in.

"So, you and Curtis."

She frowns. "That Two-Bit Mathews just can't keep his trap shut."

"That's true."

"Anyway, we just kissed a little. No big deal."

"It ain't that long since you and Danny broke up."

She leans back in the booth, crosses her arms over her chest, and you can't help but take notice. You look at the way it pushes her breasts up, all kinds of indecent thoughts coming to you, and grin a little. When you meet her gaze again, she's trying not to smile.

"What's your point, Tim?"

"Just sayin', is all. You don't seem too cut up about it."

"Well, I guess I ain't." She pauses when your drinks come, and takes a long mouthful before continuing. "I mean, I wasn't thrilled when he broke it off, but he was honest and I can't ask for more than that."

You raise an eyebrow; not many girls would be that understanding. "What'd he tell ya?" Because all he told you was that she wasn't who he wanted.

"That he's still got it bad for Mary-Louise. Not that I didn't already know that …"

"And you think him wanting some other broad makes it okay for you to hook up with Curtis not a week after Danny ended it with you?"

Her eyes widen. "Wow, Tim, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you was jealous."

"Don't know what you're talkin' about."

"C'mon, we both know Danny wouldn't give a shit that I hooked up with Sodapop - hell, he wouldn't give a shit who I hooked up with - so I don't know why you're all pissed off about it."

"Just lookin' out for a buddy."

"Bullshit. Me and Danny were never too serious and you know it."

Funny, it had looked serious to you every time you saw them together. And you saw them together a whole fucking lot, and they couldn't keep their hands off each other every single time. You push those images out of your head.

But she does have a point - Danny broke it off with her, and he wouldn't care who she fooled around with. There's no reason you should be so fucking bitchy - because that really is the only adjective for how you're acting - just because she kissed some guy. You shouldn't even give a shit.

But you do. You really fucking do. Maybe even more so because it's Curtis - _again_.

"That's why you ain't bothered about it? Because it was never too serious?" It's better to ignore her questions and ask your own, after all.

She shrugs. "Maybe. Plus … like I said, he was honest about who it was he really wanted to be with, and that he wasn't over someone from his past. And first I got a little pissed off, ya know? But then - well, then it just made me think."

"Think about what?" you ask, leaning a little closer over the table between you.

"That maybe I need to be honest about the same thing."

Your heart begins to beat really fucking quickly, but you stay calm. On the outside, you stare at her, and sit perfectly still. On the inside, you're having trouble breathing, and you count to sixty-one before she shuffles in her seat and gets your full attention.

But you don't know what to say. You don't even know what to think about that. There's some part of you telling you that you're being stupid, that she's talking about someone else, and that you're just being an idiot. Because you really are. You and Shelley have never been anything for her to not be over you …

Only, that's not exactly true and you can't deny it no matter how much you want to.

You decide to go with the safest option.

"You tryin' to tell me you ain't over Rob Riley or somethin'?"

She looks at you, eyes deep and warm and too fucking serious. "Or somethin'."

You nod, a chill going through you. Your longest relationship is two months. Two fucking months with some girl back in high school. Since then it's been dates and sex and occasionally finding a girl you can handle spending a couple of weeks with. But Shelley … fuck, she makes you want to grab her and hold tight. Never fucking let go.

And that doesn't make you feel too shit-hot. In fact, it makes you feel kind of sick and shaky and, if you're really honest with yourself, scared.

You look at her, and she's being pretty fucking obvious. And not in a way that makes you want to throw her out the door. In fact, all you want to do is lean across the booth and kiss her. Just kiss her until you can't breathe and your chest aches and just the idea of stopping kills you a little bit.

But you can't do it. You can't take the risk that you might end up hurting this girl who lights up the whole fucking place when she smiles. You can't take the risk that this girl who makes things seem right in the world will screw you over. You can't take the risk that something could happen to this girl who fucking _matters_ just because of the shit you've got yourself into with Rex Hamilton.

And you can't even pretend the one that scares you most isn't the second one.

"Getting back with Rob ain't a good idea," you say.

"I wasn't talkin' about Rob, Tim."

You force a smirk. "Someone new in your life, kid?"

That's right, you call her kid, and you don't miss the way her eyes flash at it. She sighs, before finishing off her Coke.

"Somethin' like that. Maybe I should get goin'."

"Yeah."

She waits just a few beats, and you know she's hoping you will say something, but you don't tell her what she's hoping to hear.

"See ya round, kid."

She scoffs, and leaves without another word.

* * *

><p>Reviews are appreciated.<p> 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Hallelujah" by Jeff Buckley.

**A/N:** Apologies for the late update, but I did have a baby - I figure that's a fair excuse, lol. This chapter ties very heavily into chapter 15 of _Sway._

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER TEN<br>****January 1967**

_Well maybe there's a God above._

You've seen some shitty stuff in your life.

The first - and worst - was when your old man beat the shit out of your mom with a golf club, just because she wouldn't let him use the money in Curly's piggy bank for beer. He left an hour later; took off and never returned, and you were left to look after you mom - who could barely breathe without it hurting - Curly, and Angela.

The first time you knifed someone was the first time you saw any kind of knife wound, and - you'd never admit it now - your first instinct as a fourteen-year-old kid, was to apologise. You know better now, and hell, you know for a fact that the guy you knifed at fourteen deserved it, but there had been a hell of a lot of blood you weren't expecting.

Seeing your own face sliced open wasn't exactly great, either. In fact, seeing your own face mutilated like that had made your stomach turn. You still count it sheer luck and willpower that you didn't puke all over Mrs. Phillips while she stitched you up.

Then there's the other stuff - the minor stuff; guys in the gang getting the shit beaten out of them, Vinnie Mort in tears when he told you what Hamilton did to his sister and girlfriend, Anna with a gash on her face caused by her own dad, the Cade kid in the hospital, and that feeling in your gut when you heard about Dallas.

But this is worse. Maybe not _the_ worst to have happened to you - you're not sure there's much that could beat what happened to your mom - but worse than everything else, and definitely turning into worst night of your life.

Danny's been shot. Fucking _shot_.

You fall to your knees next to him, pushing Steve Randle out of the way, and placing your own hands over the wound. The River Kings have gone, but everyone around you is panicking, and you can't fucking stand it. You take a low breath before looking up at Jack Hennings.

"Go to the nearest payphone and call for help."

Jack hesitates. "Are you sure, man? Calling for help means the cops will come -"

"Christ, Jack. Just fucking go."

He leaves. You don't care about the cops this time. Shit, you'll even do your fuckin best to cooperate with them if it means getting Hamilton locked up for this.

Pressing harder against Danny's shoulder, you tell the boys to get downtown and not leave until you tell them otherwise, you tell Randle he needs to let Anna know, and you tell Darry Curtis that it's okay, he needs to get his brothers home before the cops get there.

And then it's just you and Danny, and he's your best fucking friend, the only guy - the only _person_ - who's never screwed you over. Dallas got shot. Dallas died …

Staring at the blood pooling over your fingers, you slowly begin to count.

xxxxx

"Shepard, can't say I'm surprised to see you're involved with this." Officer Jerome is a hardass, but he's always nice about it. Kind of makes it hard to hate him sometimes.

You shrug as well as you can in the cuffs they've stuck on you, and you can't say you're surprised about that. The cops turned up to find your buddy shot and you're the only one there - of course they put cuffs on you. But it's okay; you knew, even before Jack said it, that cops coming would cause problems, but you just didn't care. Getting Danny help was more important.

And now, now that Danny's on his way to the hospital, you have to decide what's more important; the don't-squeal rule of all gangs, or telling the cops the truth.

You haven't been honest with the cops since the day your mom got hurt so bad, and then it was mostly because you didn't know any better - your dad hurt her, and when the police asked who did it, you told them. They didn't do shit about it and you learned your lesson pretty damn quick.

This is different. You're nineteen, the leader of a gang, and more than likely the next on Hamilton's hit-list. But that's not even the problem. You'd much rather have the guy come after you than Danny, but it's too late for that - he's already shot your best friend, and you'll do anything to get him back for that.

You'd like to kill the bastard - or at least beat the shit out of him - but you decide against it. He'll be expecting that, and it probably wouldn't bother him at all. Being locked up for the next few years, though …

You look at Officer Jerome, and when you open your mouth, only the truth spills out.

xxxxx

Anna blames you. You expected her to be upset, angry, frightened, but this is something else, and you almost don't recognise her. You want to explain, tell her that it's not _all_ your fault, but she won't believe you, and she's mad and worried and _scared_. And then she slaps you. No warning, no screaming and yelling, not even any tears. She just slaps you.

You've been slapped by girls before, but never by someone who mattered, by someone who you could actually stand to be around for longer than a couple of hours at a time, by someone who you've always cared about enough to look out for. Anna fucking Harris slapped you and you can't fucking believe it.

But then she's talking, her voice real low and accusatory, and as much as you want to defend yourself - as much as you try to defend yourself - there's not much you can say. And then she yells words you already know, and you think her slapping you is pretty fucking justified.

xxxxx

It's late. You don't know what time, but you left the hospital over half an hour ago, and you've just been driving around since - past empty playgrounds, houses with no lights on inside, locked up stores. You think about looking for Hamilton, but the cops warned you against it. It's not often you listen to them - nor is it often you're honest about what's been going down - but you think that maybe this time you should.

Pulled up against a curb down some silent street, you stare at the clock in the dash. It's been broken since before you got the car, but you stare at it and silently count the seconds anyway. _One, two three_ … you should really just go home, get some sleep. _Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six_ … then again, if the cops don't have Rex yet, that's probably the first place he'll be looking for you. _Forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one_ … you couldn't go home even if you wanted to and didn't have Hamilton to worry about. You're too fucking wired to sleep.

You get to 362 seconds before you make up your mind - work up the courage? - and step out of the car and into the rain. You've parked six or seven houses away, in hopes that, if Hamilton does come across your car, you won't be making things dangerous for anyone who matters. You hope you're not making things dangerous for anyone …

The house is dark - of course it is, it's got to be close to 3am - but you knock anyway, and hope like hell her old man doesn't hear it. If you knew what bedroom was hers, you would just go to the window, but you don't. You don't have a clue, and it bothers you more than it should.

When no one answers, you knock again, and again. If you didn't know she had younger siblings, you would probably start tapping at windows just to see what happened, but then the door opens and she's right there, staring at you with dazed eyes.

Her hair is messy, and you like it.

"Tim, what are you doing here? It's three-thirty in the morning," Shelley asks.

"Can I come in?"

She glances behind her before opening the door wider. "I guess, but stay quiet, okay? Everyone's sleepin'."

You walk over the threshold, and she leads you to the living room. It's simple enough, no bigger than your own, but nicer - cleaner and warmer. There's pictures everywhere, and you stare at one in particular of Shelley and a woman who must be her mom - must _have been_ her mom. You tear your gaze away, and look at Shelley. At her mouth, at her hands, at her feet - anything but her eyes.

"What're you doin' here?" She sounds accusatory, just like Anna did, but it's different with her. You deserved it from Anna, and you're not sure yet that you deserve it from Shelley.

Still avoiding her eyes, you stare at her a moment - pink flannel pyjamas, arms crossed over her chest, pink painted toenails on her bare feet - and you think she looks devastatingly perfect. You lick your dry lips, and stumble over your words.

"I just … there was - uh, a rumble tonight."

"Yeah, I know. Everyone knows it was happening tonight."

"Danny got shot."

Her arms drop. "He … oh hell. Oh hell. He got _shot_?"

"Yeah. He's gonna be okay, but, well, I guess I thought you should know."

She steps closer to you. "Are _you_ okay?"

"I ain't the one who got shot."

"No, your best friend is."

You meet her gaze for a second, then swallow back the sick feeling. Your best friend got shot … because maybe Anna's right and you didn't have his back. You cough. "I'm fine. I just … I thought you should know."

"That's why you came here?"

"You're his ex-girlfriend"

But you both know that's not why you came here.

"Tim …" Her voice is a breathy whisper, and when she says your name, it's probably the best thing you've ever heard.

"I just needed somewhere to go," you say. "The cops are lookin' for Hamilton, and he's lookin' for me, and it was probably really stupid of me to come here - really dangerous."

"Tim."

"I shouldn't be here. There're kids here. I should just go."

"You don't have to go."

You look at her again, and she's standing so much closer than you originally thought. "I just needed somewhere to stay."

She smiles and reaches one hand out. Her fingers touch yours, and you let her tangle them together. "Stay here. With me."

You nod because you can't do much else, because you can't disappoint her when she gives you that smile, because you just want to stay there with her even though it might ruin everything. And when she reaches up to softly kiss you, your whole body trembles, and you just don't have the willpower to stop her.

xxxxx

She sleeps next to you - pale, naked, fucking beautiful - and you remind yourself to call Hands Off once Danny's well enough not to just roll his eyes at you.

But for now, you need to fix what you've done, because you've either just messed everything up, or you're about to. And, the simple fact is, you're not willing to wait around and find out. You don't know what Shelley's going to think or feel or say when she wakes up in the morning, but you're sure it can't be good.

So, as hard as it is to tear yourself away from her warmth, you move to get out of the bed. She doesn't stir, not even when take your arm out from under her head; she just keeps sleeping, looking peaceful and cosy and happy. And you hate yourself for being such a shit.

The storm's finished, the sun's coming up, and you can't stand to stick around and keep watching her. Even as you leave you know that _this_ is how you're going to ruin everything. It wasn't by sleeping with her, it's by leaving her now. But you have to do it. You try to tell yourself it's so you can give Anna a ride to the hospital once she's up, that it's too unsafe to have a girl while Hamilton is out to get you, but you can't even lie to yourself.

This girl terrifies you almost as much as Rex Hamilton.

xxxxx

She must hate you. You kind of hate yourself sometimes. A lot of the time. Possibly more than she hates you.

That's a long shot, but you hope it's true. You really can't stand the idea of her hating you, though you know it's likely, and that you made it happen. Anything that's happened since the night Danny got shot, anything that's going to happen from now on - it's all you're doing, and you really fucking hate yourself for it.

But you still do nothing about it. When you see her at the Dingo, you pretend you don't. When you see her at Buck's, you take another girl home. When you see that she's back with Robbie, you don't say a fucking word.

It only takes a few weeks for her to go crawling back to that fucker.

You want to hate her for it, but you can't. She waited, you just know it, and you never went back. You're a piece of shit, and you know it as well as she does. Probably better.

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><p><strong>AN:** Reviews are loved.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Sometime Around Midnight" by The Airborne Toxic Event.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ELEVEN<br>****March 1968**

_You haven't seen her for a while_

Slowly counting the seconds that tick by, you watch Danny. He's pissed off. You can tell by the dangerous glint in his eyes. If he was frustrated, he would rub one knuckle over his forehead; if he was worried, he would tap his thumb on the table you're both sitting at; and if he was upset about something, his eyebrows would be drawn into this tiny little frown that no one would notice if they hadn't been his best friend for fourteen years.

He isn't frustrated, worried, or upset; he's pissed off. At you. Frowning slightly, you fight the urge to bring it up - partly because your best friend is one guy you don't want to fight, and partly because you're still trying to figure out exactly what it is that has him so pissed off with you. Girls or gangs - it has to be one or the other.

And then you realise, and though it makes _no fucking sense_, it makes perfect sense.

xxxxx

Danny's in love with Sylvia. _Sylvia_. You know it, and you think Anna might know it, but Sylvia has no fucking clue, and you're not even sure Danny realises it yet.

But the way he looks at you sometimes, with nothing but hate in his eyes, that's how you know. He's never been a jealous guy, never cared when you were desperate enough to take Ruth home, and has only ever called Hands Off on one broad. And, because he's an idiot, that broad isn't Sylvia.

Maybe that's why you continue to flirt with her. Maybe that's why you up the flirting whenever Danny's around. Maybe that's why you just flirt and smirk and flirt some more when he begins to get all sulky and pissed off. He's jealous - jealous that you flirt with her, jealous that she flirts back, and, most of all, jealous that you've fucked her.

He's a smart guy - smarter than yourself, sometimes - but he's got to realise. Sylvia might be a real bitch sometimes, but she sure is a looker. Blonde, curvy … not all that sweet so not quite Danny's type, but that hasn't stopped him from falling and falling hard. You know the look he gets in his eyes when he really likes a chick, and that look has never been brighter than when Sylvia pisses him off.

You haven't told Danny yet, but you think half the reason Sylvia pisses him off is because she wants him. You've known the broad for years - taken her out, slept with her, consoled her after Dally died - and you know her better than you know most girls. She doesn't get that riled up about a guy if he doesn't mean something to her. Looking at that little frown on her forehead, though, you're not sure she realises just what Danny means to her.

Counting the long seconds of their silent post-argument stand-off, you smirk. You get to forty-seven before you stand, and it's another eleven seconds before Danny drags his gaze away from Sylvia and looks at you.

"You want another drink?" he asks.

"Nah. I was thinkin', Syl, how about I take you out tonight?"

She looks at you in surprise, and out of the corner of your eye, Danny's whole body tenses.

"Why?" she asks.

"Why not? Get ya outta the house for a while, outta Danny's hair." You pause to walk around the table and stand close to her. "Plus, you know, it's been a while."

She frowns at you, looks at Danny for a long moment - almost as though waiting for him to put a stop to this - and finally nods. "Okay."

"Great." You slide an arm around her shoulders, and lead her out of the kitchen. "See ya, man."

Danny says nothing as you leave. You feel a little bad, but it's for his own good.

xxxxx

Two-Bit Mathews is really beginning to piss you off. Scowling at the ruckus he's causing on the other side of the roadhouse, you stare at the table and count. Seven deep scratches just in the space between your arms; fifteen cigarette butts in the ashtray next to your hands; four empty beer bottles and two full ones; and forty-eight sighs from the girl next to you.

You look at her, wondering why you're doing this again. "Would you relax?"

Sylvia glares at you. "I haven't been here in a long time, you know."

"So?"

"So I don't want to be, either! I don't even know why I agreed to come out with you. You obviously don't want me here, and I'd much rather be home with -" She cuts off abruptly, a light blush making its way up her neck.

You raise an eyebrow. "With?"

"Anna."

"Of course."

Her knee bounces one hundred and six times before she says anything else. "Is that why you asked me out? Is this some kind of who-can-screw-her-first game?"

"No," you say, very carefully. You wonder just how messed up her relationship with Dally was for her to think that.

"Then what is it?"

You ignore that. "Is that really how little you think of Danny?"

"I never said that."

"You implied it. You think he's the kinda guy who'd play a game like that?"

In actual fact, the two of you had played a game like that in high school, but you don't tell her that. You especially don't tell her that Danny won.

But that was high school, and you're both twenty now, and this is different. For Danny, Sylvia is different, and for a moment, you wonder when you became so good at sorting out his love life and not your own.

"No," Sylvia says. "Of course I don't think he would."

You lean close to her, but don't touch. "Can I ask you somethin'?"

"Shoot."

"Why'd you agree to come out with me tonight?"

"I dunno. I guess I thought it'd be fun. I ain't been on a proper date since Dal …" She trails off and scowls at you. "Not that I'd call this a date."

You chuckle. "C'mon, Syl, you and I both know you never would've gotten more than this from me. What's the real reason?"

She shrugs, stubbornly looking away. That's okay, though, you've got the conversation where you want it.

"I think you wanted to make him jealous."

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Why would I want to make _him_ jealous? I'm pretty sure he hates me, ya know? Can't think why he's still lettin' me crash at his place when all he does is get frustrated with me. Maybe I should just move out, get a place of my own. At least that way Danny fucking Harris won't be around every corner I look. And, you know, it's not as if I even need his help anymore. I have a job. I should just move out. Don't know why I haven't already …"

"Glory be, Sylvia. I ain't ever known you to ramble like that before."

She blushes, and presses her hands to her cheeks, as though realising this is something else you've never known her to do. You lean back again, and grip your beer in one hand.

"For what it's worth," you say, "I think it worked."

"What worked?"

"Makin' him jealous."

xxxxx

You wonder why it has to be the night you're out with Sylvia that you see Shelley again. Bad fucking karma that is.

You haven't seen her in forever - almost a year - but she looks so good it makes your chest hurt and your mouth water - in that order - and you wonder what that's supposed to mean. You're not used to this. You're not used to girls making a lasting impressions, especially when you've already slept with them. And you slept with Shelley - finally, after wanting to fuck her since that night she told you she liked your scar, you slept with her - but you still can't stop thinking about her.

Every fucking day.

She made an impression the first night you met her, and every time after that. She's always been stuck in your mind, that one girl who you genuinely like, but this is just crazy. It's been a year, you haven't been able to stop thinking about her, and now that you finally see her, you're out with another girl.

You watch her walk in to Buck's, alone but confident. She doesn't even look at you, but Sylvia catches you staring.

"So, that's her, huh?"

"Who's who?"

She smirks. "The one."

"The one? What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"You know - the _one_. The one you're always thinkin' about, can never forget about, will always want … and all because you're meant to be with her."

You shake your head, amused. "You're so full of shit. Where do you get this crap?"

"C'mon, Tim, you haven't taken your eyes off her since she walked in. And I know it ain't 'cause you wanna get her into bed."

"You do, huh?"

"Yeah."

"And how do you know that?"

She smirks. "Because I know you've already screwed her."

"She told you?" You can't help it; the words come out without any thought, and you want to kick yourself.

Sylvia just shrugs coyly. You decide to turn the conversation around.

"Is that how you know Danny's _the_ _one?_

"I don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Bullshit." You stand up. "You ever think that the sooner you and Danny stop pissing around, the sooner you can just be with each other?"

She looks at you with those wide eyes of hers. "You ever think about takin' your own advice, and actually lettin' someone into that cold heart of yours?"

You storm off without another word. Twenty minutes later, Danny's car pulls up and Sylvia dives inside before he can get out. You're left alone, with only one person at Buck's that you even want to look at, let alone talk to.

xxxxx

She's standing in front of the bar, her back to you, and you want to kick yourself for being such a pussy. It's just a girl, just some broad, just Shelley. You fight a scowl and make your way up to her, wondering when you became so fucking stupid over a chick.

"Hey."

Her whole body tenses at your voice, and you know this won't be a conversation you'll enjoy. Nor will it last very long.

She glances at you, but does nothing else to acknowledge that you're speaking to her. And, because of that, you figure you might as well get it over and done with.

"Been a while, huh?"

This time she at least scoffs to let you know she can hear you. It's better than nothing - hell, it's better than a glance in your direction - and you wonder what you'll have to say to get her to actually speak to you.

"I heard about you and Robbie."

Nothing. No glance, no scoff, nothing. Well, shit. You probably knew that bringing up Robbie wasn't the best way to go about things, but you couldn't help it. You want her to tell you the few weeks she spent with him meant nothing. You want her to tell you she only did it because you never called. You want her to tell you she can't stop thinking about you.

But you get nothing.

"You can't ignore me forever, you know?"

"I'm sure I could." She's angry and hateful, and you're pathetic and insane. Just her voice sends some kind of warmth through you.

"Well you've just screwed that idea up." You give her an easy grin. "Ignoring me requires you to not speak to me."

She picks up her drink and turns to leave. "If that's what you'd prefer."

"Wait."

She waits, and you reach out a hand to press the backs of your fingers against her lower back. She sighs and seems to melt at your touch, but just for a moment. Just until you speak again.

"Don't be mad," you say, so softly that you _have_ to lean in close.

She turns to face you and shakes her head. "You really have no idea, do you?" She stares, waiting, and you have no idea what to say, because she's right, you really do have no idea.

She leaves, and you miss her immediately.

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><p><strong>AN:** Reviews are very much appreciated. If your confused about how Sylvia ended up at Danny's, I'd suggest reading my fic "Frayed". It's in my profile:)


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Sometime Around Midnight" by The Airborne Toxic Event.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWELVE<br>****May 1968**

_That's when you lose yourself for a minute or two_

Angela's looking mighty nervous. She's not the kind of girl who gets nervous, and you immediately get suspicious. She's done a lot of stupid things lately - drinking, boys, weed, you don't want to know what else - and you want to slap the stupid out of her all the fucking time. Instead, you shove your hands in your pockets and stare at her.

And if the look in her eyes wasn't enough to tell you so, her nails sure are. Chipped polish, bitten to the quick, and bleeding slightly on one or two fingers. You don't usually pay so much attention to Angel's nails, but her wringing hands are distracting.

"You hungry?" she asks, standing up from the couch. "Want me to make ya somethin'?"

"Cut the crap, kid. What's goin' on?"

"Nothin'."

"You're a liar."

She scowls. "Why d'you always gotta assume the worst, huh? I ain't done nothin' to deserve that."

You stare at her and realise she's not wearing any make-up. It makes her look awful young, and you know that ain't the case. In age, sure, she's still a kid, but she's getting to act far too much like someone who's five years older than she is every day. And you don't like it at all.

"I got stuff to do, Angel. Just tell me what the fuck's goin' on, will ya? You in some kinda trouble?"

"Somethin' like that," she mutters.

"Someone botherin' ya?"

"No." She pauses. "You know I've been seeing Bobby for a while now, right?"

You do, and you can't say you're thrilled about it. Bobby's older than Curly, and, as far as you're concerned, someone Curly's age is still too old for Angela.

"What about it?"

"Nothin'." She crosses her arms and goes to leave, but you step in her way.

"Angel, has he hurt you? Because if you tell me has I'll fuckin' kill him. You know that, right, kid?"

She looks more fed up with your threats than anything else. "Yeah, Tim, I know that, but … it ain't that. He ain't done nothing to hurt me. Not ever."

"Then what's the problem."

"Well, see …" She wrings her hands again. "See, me and him, we've been together a while now, on and off, and …"

"And?"

"And I think I might be in trouble."

"What kinda trouble?"

"You … you know."

You feel like you might know where she's going with this, but you'd rather pretend you didn't. "Can't say I do."

"_Tim_ …" She waits, obviously hoping you won't make her say it. You say nothing. "I think - I reckon I might be pregnant."

You close your eyes, count to fifty-six, then look at your sister. Your _little_ sister, who looks more like twelve than fifteen without her make-up on. "Christ, Angel."

"I didn't mean for it to happen!" Tears fill her big eyes. "It just … happened."

You take a few moments, counting again until you know what to do. Seventy-one is what you reach when you finally accept that there's really only one thing to do.

"Okay. In that case … I reckon you can just marry him then."

You leave the house, no room for argument. You'll drag her down that fucking aisle if you have to.

xxxxx

Anna's far too happy for your mood when you get to Danny's, especially considering what Angela just told you. You can't believe that little broad - fifteen years old and already knocked up. You thought Anna was a pain in the ass with her constant talking and tapping and general annoyance … this is worse. Much worse.

"Hey, Tim!" She's rolling pastry when you walk into their kitchen, flour streaking her hair and face.

"Hey."

"How was your day?"

You give her a look, wondering what she knows. "Why?"

"Just makin' conversation."

"Huh. You after money or somethin'?"

She rolls her eyes at you. "No. And even if I did, you really think I'd ask you?"

"Good point." You watch as she grabs two beers out of the fridge and hands you one, but you pause a moment before grabbing it. "Do I smell banana cake?"

"Yeah. It should be ready in about ten minutes."

"Right."

You hadn't paid much attention when you walked in, but the table is full of baked goods - cakes, cookies, pies. And shortbread. You know them both well enough to know that she hates shortbread, and Danny loves it. You take a peanut-butter cookie, knowing you haven't seen this much baking going on in this house in months. Sure, she had a habit of baking something every day, but the girl hasn't gone this overboard in a long time.

You take the beer and sit at the counter. "What's goin' on?"

"Whaddya mean?"

There's a dopey grin on her face, and you narrow your eyes at her. "You. The good mood, the excessive baking, the handing out of beer -"

"Steve's coming home!"

Not only does she not let you finish what you were saying, but she's so excited she's practically bouncing on her feet. Hands clasped in front of her, eyes shining, she looks happier than you've seen her in a really long time. Probably about as long as Randle's been gone.

"Oh yeah?"

"Uh-huh. In about a week. It's early, but that's because he got hurt. I mean, he's okay, but he got hurt. Anyway, as you can probably guess, that's what that God-awful shortbread is for. I mean, if it's okay for Danny to bring home Sylvia one night - and expect me to be okay with it - then it's okay for my boyfriend to stay with us when he gets back, right? I mean, sure, Danny and Sylvia got together _eventually_, but Steve's already my boyfriend. And after everything he's been through …"

You stop listening pretty quickly, biting into the cookie and thinking you'd take Anna's constant talking over this mess with Angel any day.

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><p><strong>AN:** Short chapter, I know, but still a little something happy for any Steve/Anna fans ;)


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Sometime Around Midnight" by The Airborne Toxic Event.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER THIRTEEN<br>****November 1968**

_And the piano's this melancholy soundtrack to her smile_

"How many of these do you think we need?" you ask Danny, loading another bottle of whiskey into the box he's holding.

He grins. "A lot, man, we only get to celebrate your twenty-first birthday once."

"This is true."

But twenty-one sounds so fucking old you can barely believe it. There were a few times the last few years - especially around the time Dally went and got himself killed - that you weren't sure you'd make it this far. But, here you are - twenty-fucking-one.

"Think we should get another case of beer?"

Danny nods, and you place one last bottle of whiskey into the box. You grab another case of beer as you reach the front of the store, before following Danny out the back door. There's no alleyway behind the store, no sneaky parking lot for you to park your car, but there is a chain-link fence that's come loose at the bottom. Your GTO is parked under some trees in the deserted lot next door, and once you and Danny slip the liquor beneath the fence, all you have to do is walk around the front and haul ass.

"Let's go, man," you say, flipping up the collar of your jacket. You'd just about kill for a smoke, but with this wind, it'll have to wait until you're inside your car, and well away from the liquor store.

"Tim?"

Even as you freeze at the voice and share a quick glance with Danny, you know it. You recognise it. You could never fucking forget it. The memory of that voice - _her_ voice - whispering in your ear, moaning softly beneath you, sighing when you touch her in just the right spot … it'll be stuck with you forever.

So you turn, and it doesn't escape you that it was your name she called, not Danny's.

"Hey, kid."

A small frown appears at that, and you can't blame her, not really. If she's actually willing to talk to you then you should be calling her anything but kid. But, shit, she's talking to you, and that's all you can concentrate on.

"What're you guys doin'?" She pauses, glances at the liquor store behind her, then sighs. "Did you just do over the liquor store? It ain't even nine o'clock, and you're already breakin' into the place?"

You grin. "You gonna tell on us?"

"No."

"You wanna come help us drink what we just scored?"

"Oh. Well, I don't think so."

You take a few steps toward her, and Danny follows. "C'mon, it'll be fun."

"What's the occasion?"

"My birthday's tomorrow."

"That's right. Twenty-one, huh?"

"Yeah," you say, and your voice isn't supposed to sound that hoarse. You take another step closer and you don't miss the fact that her gaze hasn't strayed from yours once. "You should come."

"Why?"

"Because I want you there."

She lowers her gaze then, and you briefly wonder what Danny thinks about this. Shelley is his ex-girlfriend, and you've never once mentioned to him anything that went on between the two of you. But Sylvia probably did. That broad can't keep her trap shut to save her life.

"Whaddya even doin' out here alone?" Danny asks.

She glances at him, surprised, then blushes. "Oh, I just come here sometimes."

You stare at her. You glance at the ledge out front every time you drive past this place, and it's no coincidence that you usually choose this place as your liquor store to rob. You like it here - you _met_ Shelley here.

"Come to the party," you say, one last ditch effort. "Tomorrow night at my place."

"I dunno. Maybe. I'll try."

You don't believe her, but you're seconds short of begging, so you nod and step back. "S'good seein' you, kid."

She smiles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"But … _kid_? Really?"

No, not kid. Never again kid. She's grown up and gorgeous and anything but a kid.

You give her a long once over, then wink and walk backwards away form her. "Nah, definitely not kid."

xxxxx

You've got your lit smoke between your fingers, both hands on the steering wheel, and a running tally going through your head of every glance Danny gives you. Because he's glancing at you every few seconds, and you know what's coming, and it's really getting on your nerves.

"So," he finally says.

"So?"

"Shelley, huh?"

"What about her?"

Danny grins. "Man, you should've called Hands Off years ago."

You smirk. It's nice to know you're both on the same page.

xxxxx

She turns up. It's almost midnight, but who the fuck cares? She turns up and you notice her right away. Everyone is in the backyard, hanging around a bonfire Jack made, and you see her the moment she steps around the corner of the house. Her hair glows in the light of the fire, her skin looks warm and inviting, and her eyes are bright when they catch your gaze.

You stand up, pretty sure you must be a little drunk to be thinking thoughts like that about her. She waits where she is, and as you walk toward her, you think about the only time you've ever been drunk around her. You quickly promise yourself you won't let anything like that happen again. It was years ago, but that doesn't matter.

She smiles when you reach her, and it's light all over again. The whole backyard is dark to you, even with the fire behind you, but she's warm and bright and there.

"You came."

She shrugs. "Thought about stayin' away, but …"

"But what?"

"I just couldn't. I guess I wanted to see you, you know, on your birthday."

"Huh. Ya know, I'm not sure it bein' my birthday has anything to do with it. I think you just wanted to see me."

"You do?"

"I really do. I think you've missed me."

"Oh yeah, I've definitely missed sleeping with you then having you sneak out of my bed before sunrise." She gives you a cynical smile. "You know me, Tim; I can't get enough of guys like you."

You say nothing. You know you should apologise - the words are on the tip of your tongue - but you don't do it. She sure deserves it, but you don't think she would accept it, and that would just lead to some kind of disagreement between the two of you. Continuing this conversation in any way would lead to that same disagreement.

She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at you, waiting, and you can't help stepping closer. She doesn't move away, but a small frown forms on her face.

"You're not even gonna say anything?"

You shrug. "Whaddya want me to say, kid?"

"Not callin' me kid would be a damn good place to start."

"Sorry."

Her frown deepens, and you already know what's coming. It's the same thing running through your head.

"You can apologise for that, but not for how you treated me?" Her eyes get big and sad-looking, and you hate yourself all over again. "I know you're not the relationship kinda guy, but I thought …"

"You thought what?"

She sighs. "I know you do this all the time - sleep with girls, leave right away, never call - but I thought … I thought I was _different_."

"Shelley -" But you stop right there, because you don't know how to say that she's right - you've done this before, and any other girl and it wouldn't matter. But she _is_ different. She's special and important and warm, and you are really fucking sorry for what you did. And you don't know how to tell her that.

So, instead, you reach out a hand and brush your fingers against hers. You see rather than feel her tense, but you don't back away. Your strong fingers lace with her delicate ones, and you hope like hell she understands what it is you're trying to tell her. You're still at the edge of the house, and you step forward, making her step back until she's pressed against the wall.

"You really messed up," she whispers, eyes closed.

"I know."

"I don't think you do."

Still holding tight to her fingers, you give a slight squeeze. "I do, baby. I really fucking do."

"You've only called me baby once before." Her eyes open, and you hate that she still looks sad. "You were drunk then, too."

This time it's your eyes that fall closed, and you lean your forehead against hers. You suck in a breath, ready to admit something you're not sure you've ever admitted before. "I made a mistake."

"A big mistake."

"One I've wished I could take back every day since."

"You can't." And there's such a finality to her voice, such a definite ending, that you pull back and open your eyes.

"So that's it?"

"I thought I was different," she says again, "and then I woke up to find you gone …"

You let go of her fingers. "Yeah."

"You didn't just make a mistake, Tim, you - you ruined anything we … anything I thought we could've had."

Standing straight, you take a step back. "Then why're you here? It's been well over a year. Fuck, kid, it's almost been two years, but you're still dwelling on it."

"You don't seem to be doin' much better. You were all over me the moment I arrived."

There's nothing you can say to that. You just swallow back the sick feeling in your throat, and pretend like Sylvia's words from that night at Buck's aren't true.

"I should go," she says.

"Sure."

She licks her lips, and your gaze is immediately drawn to her mouth, and when she steps closer to you, your heart drunkenly lurches. Her lips brush against the side of your mouth, so barely-there that you can't stand it, and then she pulls back.

"Happy Birthday, Tim."

She goes to leave, but you grab her arm. She tenses again, but you don't let go. Nor do you pull her closer. You just tug until she turns to face you.

You stare in to her eyes. "You were different," you say. "You _are_ different."

She smiles. "I guess we'll see."

You let her go, and watch her leave, not taking your gaze off her until you can no longer see her in the night.

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><p><strong>AN:** Reviews really would be wonderful and appreciated.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Sometime Around Midnight" by The Airborne Toxic Event.

**A/N:** This chapter slightly ties into chapter fourteen of _Like Causes Without Rebels_.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FOURTEEN<br>****March 1969**

_You can see her lying naked in your arms_

You haven't seen her for a while. Admittedly you've been locked up for the last six weeks, but even before then you hadn't seen her since your birthday. You vaguely wonder if you would've had the chance to see her had you not been sent away, but you doubt it. She's been avoiding you. Again.

There's a party at Buck's. You and the gang just finished up a few minutes ago, and only you and a couple of the guys have stuck around. George and Jack are here, but Curly took off the moment the meeting ended. Apparently there's some party he was missing out on, but you're willing to bet there's a girl in the mix, too. With Curly, there's always a fucking girl in the mix.

But with you … fuck, there's only one girl who matters, and you can't even be with her. And you don't even spend time wondering if she will ever forgive you for skipping out on her that morning. You think she might have forgiven you before she came to your house on the night of your birthday, but, going by what she said, a need to forgive you wasn't the problem.

You ruined everything. Something you had already known, but hoped like hell you could change. Hearing her tell you, hearing it come from her, made you realise that maybe your chance with her was gone. Completely fucking done.

And now, standing against the bar at Buck's, you watch her. She had arrived while you and the guys had been talking out back, and you know she's subtly watching you right back. She will talk and laugh and drink with her friends, but every time she turns in your direction, her eyes glance at you for the quickest, most wonderful second.

A small smirk plays at your lips every time, because even though you ruined things, even though you're pretty sure she wants nothing to do with you, wants to forget about you, you know she can't. You know she's not over you. You know she still wants you, and right now, that's enough.

But then she stops talking and laughing and drinking. She squares her shoulders and makes her way toward you, and you feel a little light-headed.

"Hey," she says, voice quiet over the sound of the jukebox.

"How's it goin'?"

"It's goin' good, Tim." She pauses. "How are you?"

You can't answer. You can't answer because all you can smell is her perfume, all you can hear is her soft voice murmuring incoherent words as you kiss a path down her stomach, all you can see is her naked body pressed against your own, and all you can taste is _her_. Just her. But you can't touch her, and it makes you crazy.

It makes you wonder why you've been so fucking stupid these last few years.

You treated her like a kid, you drunkenly hit on her, you sat around and did nothing while she dated your best friend. You used her, you left her, and you never apologised. You might want her, but you sure don't deserve her.

"Tim?"

You look her in the eyes, and you don't know what she sees in yours, but she takes a quick step back. "Maybe I should go."

She waits a beat, then leaves, and you can't even kick yourself for having said nothing. There was nothing you could say short of begging her to be yours. Keeping your trap shut was for the best - it usually is for the best when you're around her, but sometimes when you're around her you just can't help the words that fall out of your mouth.

You try not to watch her anymore. You drink and drink and only glance at her every now and then, not once catching her gaze or smirking in response to it. But when she gets up to leave, you do watch. You watch her, and you think you might hate her a little bit.

There's some guy with her. You don't know him, don't fucking want to know him, but she's leaving with him and you really fucking hate him. You hate him more than you've hated anyone for a really long time, and if you could jump him right now, without Shelley being pissed off at you, then you would. Without a second thought.

She's at the door, the guy she's with holding it open for her, and she turns to look at you. You try to hate her, sure that she's making sure you see her leaving with someone else, but you could never hate her. She looks so light and sweet and innocent in her white dress, and you just want to take her and kiss her until every ounce of innocence is gone.

So you stare at her, and the four seconds that tick by seem closer to four minutes. But then she leaves, and you order another beer.

xxxxx

The next day you hear about Curly getting jumped long before you get home. At first you don't know if he's there or off somewhere with that fucking rich girlfriend of his, but you pull in to the driveway and don't miss the red Thunderbird parked on the street. The red Thunderbird that no one in your neighbourhood could ever afford. She's got guts leaving it out there, that's for sure.

You don't want to deal with this shit - a beat-up Curly, _or_ his girlfriend - and even consider leaving. But you don't. It's late, you're possibly still hung over from the night before, and you just want to crash. Hopefully, if you have any fucking luck, Curly and his girlfriend would've crashed by now, too. At least if they're in his bedroom, you don't have to see them.

But you see them the moment you walk inside. Well, you see her. She's got her back to you, and you were quiet enough coming inside that she doesn't turn, but you pause. You can see Curly's legs as he lies on the couch, but not much else. Just the back of his girlfriend, which doesn't give you any indication of what she looks like, or the chance to see if you can at least understand why Curly's fucking the chick.

You turn, ready to head upstairs, when Curly starts to speak.

"What's the time?"

"A little after eleven."

You glance over your shoulder, watching Curly raise a hand to the girl's hair.

"You should really get home," he says.

"You want me to go?"

"Nah, I want ya to stay, but your olds ain't gonna like it."

She leans close to him. "I don't care. I just want to be here with you."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Always, Curly." She paused. "I love you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And you love me, right?"

Your whole body tenses at what you're hearing. You thought it was just a bit of fun, Curly screwing around with some rich girl he got a little attached to, but this seems like more than that. Too much more than that. It sounds serious, and you know anything too serious will just start to mess with Curly's head. He'll be useless to you before you know it.

"You know I do," he says.

"Fuck," you breathe, too quietly for anyone to hear. Not sticking around to hear anymore, you silently make your way upstairs.

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><p><strong>AN:** Thanks to those who have reviewed. They are very much appreciated :)


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Crimson and Clover" by Tommy James and the Shondells.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FIFTEEN<br>****June 1969**

_Now I don't hardly know her_

Danny had tensed the moment she walked into the house. You had your back to the door, but glanced over your shoulder, wondering if - and kind of hoping that - something was about to go down. And instead of seeing someone who might try to kick your ass - you saw Robbie Riley.

With his arm around Shelley.

She stared at you, eyes wide, and you knew she must have been surprised to see you. This was a Brumly party, after all - you probably shouldn't be there. But you were invited, and it's not your fault she didn't know that.

But somehow, despite every inch of you that wants to be angry at her, you just can't. Not now, when she's only been there an hour and her so-called boyfriend already has his hands all over some other chick. In a way you're glad - you don't want them to be together - but you're also furious. You still hate yourself for hurting her the way you did; you can't stand the idea of anyone else doing it.

She's in the bathroom - you pretend you just happen to know where she is all the time - but comes back just as Robbie leans down to kiss the brunette he can't keep his hands off. You watch Shelley, not missing the sigh that falls from her lips before she walks out the front door. Danny and Sylvia are making out and won't miss you. You get up and go after her.

And find her sitting on the hood of your car. But you don't think she's waiting for you - she looks far too surprised to see you.

"Hey," you say.

"Don't mind me, I just needed some place to sit." She smiles, but you're not fooled.

"Why do you do it? He does this to you every time and you know it."

"Tim, it's not like that -"

"The hell it's not. He treats you like shit, and you keep taking him back. What the fuck, Shelley?"

She gets down from the hood of your car, and crosses her arms over her chest. There's a frustrated look in her eyes, and you know it's not all directed at how things always end up with Robbie. In fact, you know Robbie's not as important to her as some people might think.

"Why d'you even care?" she finally asks.

That stumps you. Not the question itself - you know you care because you simply _care_; about her, her feelings, how she gets treated - but how you're supposed to answer it. You don't have many good options; tell her the truth, lie, or ignore it. Nothing appealing there, so all you do is take a step forward.

She sighs. "Why is it you only tell me something important when you think you need to? When you think I've given up?

"I thought you had given up."

"I have. Why else do you think I'm back with Robbie."

She goes to leave then, to go back to the party, but you can't let that happen. You step in front of her, blocking her path.

"What're you sayin'? That's why you're with him again? That's why you've gotten back together with him so many times in the past? Because I …"

"Because you what?"

You shrug. "Because I don't tell you what you wanna hear."

"This has nothing to do with what I want to hear, Tim. It's about what you can't say, despite knowing it's true." She pauses. "Getting back together with Robbie was never to spite you."

"No?"

Her mouth quirks up in a crooked smile. "Not entirely, anyway."

You think you might have known this - known part of the reason she always ended up back with Robbie was because she wasn't with you. You know that was the case after you slept with her, and you think it might have been the case once or twice before that.

But that's not all. You're not the only reason.

"Why then?"

"I dunno. I guess I get lonely, you know? I live at home with my dad and four younger siblings … I get lonely, and when we're not pretending to be anything serious, Robbie treats me okay.

"And you think okay's good enough?"

She shrugs. "Okay's okay."

You think about that for a second, fury rising inside of you. "You're settling."

"For now, maybe. I don't have much of a choice."

"Yes you do. Okay's not good enough, and you know it. You need to forget him and move on to someone else. Why aren't you doing that?"

She stares at you for a moment, then gives you a sad smile. "No one's offerin', Tim."

She begins to walk past you and you let her for a split second. Then, unable to help yourself, you turn and grab her arm, pulling her around to face you. The words are out of your mouth before you know what the fuck you're doing.

"_I'm_ offerin'."

"Tim -"

"I'm offerin'," you say again, tugging her body close to yours.

"Offerin' what?"

"Whatever you want."

You don't think, you don't consider, you don't count. You just say exactly what's been on your mind for too fucking long now.

"Whatever I want? But this isn't just about me, Tim. What do you want?"

You rest your forehead against hers. "I just want you."

"But will you still want me in the morning?"

"Yeah. And the morning after that, and the morning after that. Maybe even a couple of mornings after that, but then I'm gonna need a morning or two to myself."

"Is that right?"

"Hmm, but only one or two. Then I'll drag you back to my bed if I have to."

"You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl."

You smirk. "Baby, if that was true I would've said this years ago."

"Baby, huh?"

"And I've only had two drinks."

She smiles. That's all, just smiles, but it fills you with warmth and light and everything you need. Everything you've ever needed. _She_ is what you need.

"I'm offerin'," you say again, barely whispering.

"You're offerin'."

"That's right."

"You're offerin' … a relationship?"

You breathe out softly. "So long as it's with you."

"Well, shit." She slips her hands beneath your T-shirt. "How could I say no?"

xxxxx

"I guess I should get going," she says, so calm, so neutral, so easy - almost as if she really doesn't mind.

But you don't miss the hint of a question in her voice. You nod, running your gaze down the length of her body one last time.

Smiling as though it really doesn't bother her, she climbs out of bed and gets dressed. You don't hide the fact that you're watching her - every move, every curve, even inch of pale skin you can lay your eyes on. Hands resting behind your head, you stare at her when she turns to face you.

"I'll see ya later?" This time she doesn't pretend it's not a question, and you can't blame her. It's only been a few days - of course she's still wary of you wanting a real relationship.

You nod, and she heads for the door. As soon as it closes behind her, you begin to feel restless, nervous, uneasy. You already miss her, and that's the problem. Slowly, you start to count.

**October 1969**

It's cold in your place. You don't have much in the way of heating, and it's already getting too damn cold at night. As you take a long drag of your smoke, you thank your lucky stars that you've got Shelley around to keep you warm.

She doesn't seem too cold, either. The room is definitely cool, but she seems happy enough to be barely covered in a sheet. Lying on her stomach, resting on her elbows as she watches you smoke, she seems perfectly content with the sheet only just covering her ass. You're quite happy about it, too. It's her usual position post-sex, and you really can't complain.

"Can I ask you somethin'?" she asks.

"If ya have to."

She smirks. "How many girls have you slept with?"

You stare at her, not sure you're actually having this conversation. Four months. You've been with her and only her for four months now, and it's been good. Hell, it's been fucking great and you don't have a single complaint. But now she wants to know how many girls you've slept with, and you sure as hell don't want to tell her.

"We're not really doin' this, are we?"

"We don't have to." She shrugs, looks away. "I ain't gonna get angry, or anything. Whether you tell me or not … I was just curious."

"Why?"

"Gotta know who my competition is."

Competition. She has to be joking, but one look in to her eyes tells you she's not. This is the only relationship you've had, and she's the only girl you've been with that matters, but she's still worried about … _something_.

You reach out to tug at a strand of her blonde hair. "You ain't got any competition."

"Sure about that?"

"Positive."

She meets your gaze again. "You don't wanna tell me, do you?"

"Not particularly."

"That's okay. I didn't really think you would."

You smirk. "You gonna tell me how many guys you've been with?"

"You really wanna know?"

And, surprisingly enough, you do. You can't fucking stand the idea of any other guy having touched her, but there's a jealous, possessive, arrogant part of you that needs to know. You nod.

"Four."

"Four?"

"Jeez, Tim, don't sound so shocked."

"Sorry." You had thought more than four. You reach a hand out to her hair again, tangling the loose strands in to your fingers, and before you can stop yourself, you ask, "Who?"

She laughs. "You're kiddin', right? You won't even tell me how many."

"I will if ya tell me who."

"Really?"

You do the math in your head, trying to remember each girl. "Really."

"Okay." She sits up and crosses her legs, pulling the sheet up to cover her chest. "In order of appearance - Robbie, Joey, Danny, and then you."

You knew about Robbie and Danny, but still hate that Joey's in there. He's a good guy, but that makes it two guys from the gang that your girl's screwed around with. You look at her, not liking the small frown on her face.

"You're angry," she says.

"Four guys, and that's including me?"

"Yeah."

"And no one after me?"

"Nope."

"So, you're sayin' you ain't been with anyone else since that night? After Danny got shot? Not even Robbie?"

She blushes. "What's your point?"

You don't even know what your point is because your heart is thudding, your mouth is dry, and all you want to do is kiss her. Instead, you quietly tell her your number, and when she repeats it, her voice is low, disappointed.

"Yeah. But only one of them ever mattered."

"You better be talkin' about me."

You grab her arm and tug softly until she's sitting on your lap. "Baby, you mattered long before we slept together." And then, to effectively end the conversation, you kiss her.

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><p><strong>AN:** Beta'd by Sam :)


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Crimson and Clover" by Tommy James and the Shondells.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER SIXTEEN<br>****November 1969**

_But I think I could love her_

Sometimes you can tell just by looking at him that Curly hates you a little bit. You pretend not to care, pretend what you did is for the best, pretend like he can pull this uninterested bullshit for as long as he wants, but it's not all true. You don't like to think about it, so you're not sure which is and which isn't true, but you sometimes find yourself wondering.

Maybe making him choose between the gang and his girl wasn't the best idea. He chose the gang - of course - but he hasn't been the same since. He does what you tell him, when you tell him, and never puts up a fight, but … he never puts up a fight. He doesn't talk back, he doesn't make stupid jokes, and he doesn't even look at you most of the time. He's your brother, but all you can do is pretend like it doesn't matter.

But you're pretty sure he hates you sometimes. Not the childish kind of hate Angela used to claim to feel toward both you and Curly, but the real kind of hate that you never thought someone as easy-going as Curly would ever feel.

And that's why you're surprised when he comes to your place, alone, only wanting to see you. You moved out of home a couple of months after getting out of the joint, and this is the first time Curly's been to your place.

It's early on a Sunday morning, and Shelley's sleeping next to you when you hear the banging at the door. You slip on some jeans and make your way out, surprised to see Curly.

"What is it?" you ask, knowing it's got to be something gang-related.

"Rex is out."

Those three words are enough to give you a fucking headache you know will be almost impossible to get rid of. "You sure?"

Curly nods. "Saw him myself last night. He was all over Ruth."

"Shit." You run a hand through your hair, and open the door wider. "Comin' in?"

"Nah. Just stopping by - thought you'd wanna know."

"Yeah, right."

"See ya." He goes to leave, and that just pisses you off even more. But, instead of yelling at him, you call out his name.

He turns. "What?"

"Thanks, man."

He doesn't say anything else before leaving, but you can't stress about that now. Rex Hamilton is out of prison, and if you know the bastard at all, his number one target will be you. And Danny. Cursing a blue streak, you hunt out some clothes. You'll let Shelley sleep as long as she wants, but you've got to talk to Danny.

**December 1969**

"So, that was Christmas, huh?"

Shelley looks at you - she's naked, stretched out on her stomach - and blinks sleepily. "That was Christmas. Did you have fun?"

You shrug. "It was okay." It had been pretty good. You're not sure about her younger brothers and sisters, but they weren't the little shits you had assumed they would be. They didn't break stuff, they didn't scream and yell, and they didn't even annoy you. "The food was good."

"I hope you don't go expectin' food like that every night. Dad's the one who can cook, not me."

"Yeah. Your old man's pretty cool."

She smiles that smile of hers. "My old man's pretty amazing."

"Yeah." You say nothing else for a few minutes, just watch her begin to doze off. But you don't want her to sleep yet. You don't have anything else to talk about, but you're not ready to sleep. This is the first Christmas you've celebrated in years, - it doesn't mean much to you anymore, but it's been a good day and you're not ready for it to end.

Her eyes open, and she looks at you, wide awake. "Tim?"

"Mmm?"

She pushes herself up to lean on her elbows before continuing. "I love you."

She loves you. _She loves you_. You stare at her, not saying anything, just hearing those words in her voice run through your head over and over again. She loves you. She loves you, and the words slipped out of her mouth so fucking easily that you know she means it. But you knew that anyway; Shelley wouldn't lie about something like that.

"It's okay," she says. "I don't expect you to say it back or nothin'."

"You don't?"

"Nope. I just … Angela's kinda self-involved, you know? And Curly's still pissed off at you for that whole thing with his Soc girlfriend, and it's Christmas. It's Christmas, and I just wanted you to know that someone loves you."

"Right."

She says nothing, just lies back down and watches you, and for a moment you think she might mean it - that she really doesn't expect you to say it back. You look away, not sure what you're feeling.

"Don't go runnin' for the hills, or nothin'," she says.

"I'm not."

"But you've gone quiet. Quieter than usual. It's kinda worryin' me."

"You don't need to worry." You run a knuckle over her cheek. "I ain't goin' anywhere."

And you're really not. You figure there's a part of you that should _want_ to run as far away as you fucking can, but it's just not there.

"Can we go to sleep then? Because I'm exhausted."

"Yeah." But you don't turn the lamp off, and Shelley doesn't move either. You just stare at her for a long minute.

"I just wanted you to know," she whispers. "That someone does love you."

You nod. "Well, if someone's gotta do it, I'm glad it's you."

She smiles warmth, and you turn off the lamp next to the bed and lie down. Shelley's warm body presses against your own, and you slide both arms around her, breathing in her scent.

You smile in the dark.

She loves you.

But you already knew that.

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><p><strong>AN:** Thanks for reading. Three chapters to go :)


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Teardrop" by Massive Attack.

**Warning:** The following chapter contains mentions of violence and adult situations. Please use discretion.

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><p><strong>C<strong>**HAPTER SEVENTEEN  
><strong>**January 1970**

_Teardrops on the fire of a confession_

You don't recognise the blue Corvette that pulls in to the parking lot of the grocery store, but you sure as fuck recognise the guy who rolls down his window to talk to you. Danny tenses next to you, and your hands clench into fists. Rex Hamilton has only been out a couple of weeks, but you're surprised this is the first you've seen of him.

"Shepard. Harris."

Neither of you say anything, but that just makes Hamilton grin. You want to kick his fucking head in for that alone.

"Wanna guess what I was doin' last night, Shepard?"

You still say nothing for two reasons. One: You don't give two shits what he was doing the night before; two: it's the principle of the matter - he wants a response so you're not going to give him one.

Hamilton leans out the window a little. "Last night, Shepard, I was fucking your girl."

xxxxx

You didn't believe him. You still don't believe him. But there was something about his smirk, the glint in his eyes, the tone to his voice that worried you. You're not worried Shelley screwed around on you - you're worried Hamilton might have hassled her. You know he didn't fuck her, but you wouldn't put hurting her past him.

And the fact that she's not at her apartment worries you.

You knock for a while longer, just in case. Then you begin to pound at the door, and even call her name a few times. But still nothing. After five minutes, you leave her apartment and head to her old man's place.

xxxxx

Her dad opens the door before you get the chance to knock. His face is incensed - red cheeks, vicious eyes, dangerous scowl - and you fight the urge to take a step back.

"What the fuck're you doin' here?"

"I'm lookin' for Shelley. She wasn't home, and I … I'm worried."

"You're worried? You're fuckin' worried? Jesus Christ, kid, after the way you messed with her, you ain't got any right to be -"

Shelley's voice coming from her old bedroom interrupts him. "Dad, stop. I told you it wasn't Tim."

"Like hell it wasn't," he says, but you're not listening to him.

Ignoring the fact that you know he's got himself a shotgun hidden in his bedroom, you push past him to find Shelley. Something's wrong; you knew it before and you really fucking know it now. You don't know what Hamilton's done to her, but you know he's done more than just scare her a little.

The front door closes behind you as you get to the doorway of Shelley's bedroom. She's standing a few feet away, and she's -

You swallow back bile and fury and the burning feeling that runs throughout your whole body. She won't meet your gaze, but she doesn't need to - you can see enough without seeing her eyes. You can see the bruises on her face, the scratches on her neck, the thin patch of hair on her skull …

And when you take a step closer, you see the flinch her body makes, the guilty glance she gives you, the teeth marks on the skin her pyjama top doesn't cover …

You don't move, and your voice is barely a whisper when you speak. "Where else did he hurt you?"

She looks at you then, eyes filled with tears, and her voice is just as quiet as yours.

"Everywhere."

"Tell me what happened."

"I _can't_."

You glance around for her dad, and he's standing in the living room, watching you, but giving you time. You look back at Shelley, and _will_ her to tell you you're wrong.

"He told me - he came to find me today, just to tell me he fucked you last night."

She cringes. "Tim -"

"I didn't believe him. Not a single part of me believed you'd do that to me, but … he was kinda telling the truth, huh? He just didn't mention that he … _fuck_."

You turn away, begin to pace, hate that you're rambling. You know what he did, can see it in her eyes, and it makes you sick. Hands shaking, you turn back to look at her.

"He -" You swallow heavily. "He _forced_ you."

She cries then, and it's the kind of crying you've never seen or heard before. Heavy sobs rack her body, her arms wrap protectively around her stomach, and a low keening sound escapes her lips. And she's apologising, the word coming out in broken gasps. You want to go to her. As she sits on her old bed, you want to go to her, but you can't because you don't want to scare her, because you don't want to hurt her, because you don't know what to do.

You watch her cry, and don't know what to do.

xxxxx

Hours later, you still don't know what to do. Shelley's passed out on her bed, her body full of sleeping pills that you hope will last through the night. There's a blanket tucked tightly around her chin, and you sit on the floor next to her, your back up against the wall. Her hand is in yours. It's the most she's allowed you to touch her all night.

You want to leave. You want to get the fuck out of there, find Hamilton, and kill him. There's no exaggeration there - you don't care about beating the shit out of him, getting him put back in jail, anything. You just want him dead, and you want it to be by your hands.

But you don't know what to do. Shelley asked you to stay - literally begged you not to leave her - and, at this stage, you'll do anything she wants. You'll stay as long as she needs you to, and put off dealing with Rex for as long as you need to. You don't like the idea of seeing those same tears enter her eyes if you try to leave again, and you can't bear the idea of her waking up to find you gone.

This shouldn't be happening, not to your girl. You know it happens, you've heard about it a few times - Vinnie Mort comes to mind and you realise this must be how he felt - and you were furious when Angela had her hair cut the way she did. For months after you wondered if that was really all that had happened, but you knew it must be. No one was stupid enough to mess with anyone important to you by really hurting them.

At least, no one had been that stupid until Rex Hamilton got out of prison. And you know that's why he did it, you know this is because he was trying to get under your skin.

You _know_ this is your fault.

You and Shelley haven't talked about it - she's barely said a word all night short of when you arrived and begging you not to leave - but you know she knows it's your fault. And you're surprised she doesn't hate you. Her dad does, you're pretty sure of that. He knows it wasn't you who hurt her, and doesn't know it's your fault, but you think he might currently hate any guy your age.

A tremor runs through Shelley, just as it's done every few minutes since she finally fell in to a fitful sleep. There's a small frown on her face, and she occasionally whimpers, and all you want to do is wake her up, tell her you're sorry, promise her this won't happen again. That you will protect her from now on.

You think it might be too late for that one.

She's your girl, but you don't know how to help her this time.

xxxxx

You haven't left her bedroom to do more than piss and shower in four days. Her dad brought in an old camping cot for you to sleep on, and every time you lie on it, Shelley gives you this guilty look, as though she feels bad for not letting you sleep in her bed with her. And fuck, no matter how many times you tell her, it doesn't matter.

She needs to be okay - you need her to be okay - and if that means being in her room but not in her bed, then so be it. Hell, as much as you want to get out of there and kill Hamilton - or just let off a little steam if you can't find the fucker - all you really want is to be with her. In her bed or not, it doesn't matter.

Except that she has nightmares. Four, five, six of them every night, and you never know what to do. You're too scared to wake her, too scared to comfort her, too scared to touch her, and you're not used to being scared of anything. When your old man beat the shit out of your mom, and when Danny got shot are the only other times you've been scared.

It doesn't escape your notice that two out of three of the times you've been scared are caused by Hamilton.

"Tim?"

You look at Shelley. She's sitting up in her bed, blankets pulled tightly around her body, watching you take off your boots. "What is it, baby?"

"I … I'm awful sorry about all this. I never meant for -"

You stand. "Don't. Don't go apologisin' for this, you hear me?"

"I just -"

"You just nothin', Shelley. This - what happened to you - it ain't your fault, got it? I know you're feelin' bad, but it ain't your fault and you gotta stop blamin' yourself. You just gotta stop."

She gives you a look then, and it's the same look she's given you so many times in the past - the look where she's trying to tell you something you either don't understand, or choose not to understand.

"It ain't your fault, either," she says.

You nod and swallow back that sick feeling in your throat. It sure makes you feel better that she doesn't blame you, but nothing she says will stop you from blaming yourself. Hamilton did this, not you or Shelley, but he did this because of you, and that's enough to make you want to die a little.

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><p><strong>AN:** Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, and huge thanks to Sam for everything.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Teardrop" by Massive Attack.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER EIGHTEEN<strong>

_Nights, nights of matter_

You wake up to screaming for the seventh night in a row. Rubbing sleep out of your eyes, you reach for the lamp so you can see what's going on. You blink in the light, and stand up. The last few days have been okay, and you've managed to wake Shelley up with a few well-placed shakes, stepping away before she gets worried by your touch.

But this time she wakes before you touch her. She wakes right as you lean over her, hand outstretched toward her. And she flinches, squeezes her eyes closed, and begins to whisper to herself. You don't know what's going on, but you jerk your hand back and say her name.

"Get away from me," she hisses.

"Shelley."

"Get away!"

Her bedroom door opens and her dad walks in. "What's goin' on?"

"Another nightmare," you say, and slowly reach out a hand again.

This time, she completely loses it. Shrieking at you, she scrambles into the corner of the bed, holding her blankets against her. She looks at you with wild eyes, fearful and wet, and your heart does a strange lurching thing that you don't like. You step back, knowing what you've only guessed at and what you know she would have denied had you ever brought it up.

She scared of you. Hell, she's fucking terrified of you.

"I don't want him here," she yells at her dad. "Get him away from me. I don't ever want him back here again."

You don't need to be told twice. Already in your jeans, you pick up your T-shirt, jacket, and boots, and leave the bedroom. Her crying doesn't stop, but you do. You'll leave, just like she wants you to, but you have to make sure she's okay first. You don't think you can leave without knowing she's going to be okay.

The living room clock says it's a little after 1am, and you lean against the wall opposite her room, waiting. Her dad's soft voice is muffled through the closed door, but whatever he's saying to her is working, and her screams become quieter until there's no sound at all. A minute later, her dad comes out and looks at you.

"She was dreaming."

"Right."

"I ain't kiddin', kid. She was still in her nightmare when she opened her eyes to find you above her."

"She tell you that, did she?"

"No." He paused. "But she asked for you right before falling back to sleep. I know my kid, and she wasn't seein' you when she was yellin' at ya."

You stand straight and ignore that. You don't know if it's true or not, but you can't think about it right now - you need to get the fuck out of there.

"I gotta go."

Her dad grabs your arm as you turn to leave. "You'll be back, won't you?"

Shelley's cries ring in your ear, and you can't forget the way she looked at you, but you nod anyway. "I'll be here if she wants me here."

"She does."

You leave, not sure how much you believe that.

xxxxx

You end up at Buck's. It's been a while since you've been there, since you've had a beer, since you've seen Danny or Curly. They both looked surprised when they walk in to find you piss-drunk, barely keeping yourself upright on the damn barstool, and arguing with Buck. He's cut you off, refusing any of your perfectly good money, and telling you it's time to go home. Fuck home. You want to stay at the roadhouse.

Danny and Curly arrive just as you throw your first punch in too goddamn long. You don't know why they're there - drunk as you are, you can only just remember why you're there on a Tuesday night - but you can't say you're happy to see them. Especially when they both grab one of your arms and drag you outside.

You're not sure you're exactly unhappy to see them, though, either. It crosses your mind that you should be angry at them for something, but you can't quite figure out what. Then you think about Shelley, about how hurt she is, and you hate yourself and no one else

Except Hamilton. You'll never hate anyone as much as you hate him. You want to kill him.

"Hey, man, calm down, huh?" Danny says.

"Fuck off." You shrug the two of them off you and glare at them both.

"It's been a while, man. Wanna tell us what's goin' on? Wanna tell us why you're completely fuckin' soused on a Tuesday night? Wanna tell us why we ain't seen you in over a week, and why, when we do, you're throwin' punches at Buck?"

"I'm gonna kill him."

You barely catch the look that passes between Curly and Danny.

"Kill who, Tim? Buck?" Curly asks.

"No. Hamilton. I'm gonna kill him and I'm really gonna enjoy doin' it. You know why? 'Cause he fuckin' deserves it."

There's nothing but silence for a few moments, and you wonder why the hell Buck even agreed to serve you. There's no one else there.

"Well, can't say I disagree there." Danny absentmindedly rubs at the scar on his shoulder. "I just wonder what he's done this time, because I know you don't believe what he said about Shelley the other day."

Rage washes over you, and a white-hot heat spreads throughout your body. Without a second thought, you throw a messy punch at Danny. He only staggers slightly, but when he straightens up, blood covers his lip.

"Christ, man, what the fuck?"

"Keep your fuckin' trap shut about her, asshole."

He takes a step back, watching you carefully. "Okay."

And then you feel real bad. You've never hit Danny before. Not even when you were wrestling as kids, or fighting over girls as teenagers. But now you're hitting him because you don't know where Hamilton is, because you're too drunk to go after him even if you did, because Shelley's so fucking broken and you don't know how to fix her.

They way she looked at you flashes in front of you, and you rub your eyes. "Fucking hell." You look up again, at your only brother and the guy who's always been like a brother. And, fuck, if anyone can help you with this, it's them.

"You gotta help me find him." You're not sure you've ever asked either of them for help before.

Danny shakes his head. "You gotta tell us what's goin' on."

You know he's right. You and Danny just don't fight. You're pretty sure he'll help even if you refused, but you owe him more than that.

"He hurt Shelley." And that's all you can say because the idea of telling them exactly what happened brings bile to the back of your throat.

"He hurt her?"

"Yeah?"

Curly speaks up then. "Hurt her how?"

You open your mouth, close it again, and stand there feeling helpless. You can't say it. Shelley would hate to know you told anyway, and you can't say it, but you can't keep it to yourself anymore. You can't deal with this alone. You can't help her without help yourself. Finally, you look at Danny, hoping he knows what you're getting at by the few words you're willing to say.

"He hurt her … same way he hurt Vinnie Mort's girlfriend."

Danny pales and Curly looks confused.

"I gotta find him," you continue.

"Not tonight, buddy." Danny takes a small step forward. "I know you're pissed off, and you've got every fucking right to be, but … you're really drunk."

"I don't give a shit, man. I gotta find him."

"I ain't lettin' ya. You go after Hamilton like this and he'll kill you before you reach his front fucking door."

You look at your brother. "Curly, c'mon, kid. You're in, right?"

He nods. "Sure, Tim, if someone hurt Shelley then I'll help ya do whatever, but …"

"But what?"

"Danny's right. You're too drunk and you'll end up dead quicker than you can count to three."

Of course the little fucker's not going to help out - he's still pissed at you for the thing with that damn broad, and you should've known he'd never do a fucking thing to help out you or Shelley.

"Fuck you, you piece of shit."

"C'mon, Tim -"

"Fuck the both of yous." You go to leave, but stumble over your own feet, landing heavily against your own car. You sigh, knowing they're both right, knowing you're too soused for what you want to do. "I gotta kill him."

Danny pats you on the back. "And you will, man. We'll do whatever we can to help you out, I swear. But not now, not tonight."

"Tomorrow?"

"We'll see."

"It's gotta be soon."

Danny glances at Curly. "It's gotta be when Shelley's feelin' okay, ya dig? She needs ya around, man, not lyin' in a jail block or gutter."

"Shelley hates me."

"That ain't true," Curly says.

You look at him, surprised that he's telling the truth and surprised that you can tell he's telling the truth.

"I'm gonna kill him," you tell your little brother. "I dunno when, but after what he made her do, I'm gonna fuckin' kill him."

Curly swallows so hard you can see his throat work, and you know he finally understands.

"Whenever you want, Tim. So long as you ain't drunk."

xxxxx

You put off going back to Shelley's for as long as you can, but you're so fucking weak when it comes to her that you knock on her front door the next afternoon. You're nursing one hell of a hangover, but that's not your biggest concern. Your biggest concern is how Shelley will look at you when you walk inside.

Her dad opens the door, a relieved look on his features when he sees you. "Christ, kid, I wasn't sure you was gonna come back."

"Said I would."

"Yeah, you also said you wouldn't leave."

You bristle at that. "She wanted me gone and you know it."

"She feels mighty bad about that. Doesn't even remember what happened."

You don't know why you believe him. Maybe because you don't think Shelley would lie. When he opens the door for you, you step inside and head for her bedroom. She doesn't leave it very often these days.

She's sitting on her bed, staring blindly at the cot you've been sleeping on. When you walk in, she blinks up at you a few times before the hazy look disappears from her eyes.

"You came back."

"Is that okay?"

Tears fill her eyes. "Yes."

You carefully move to sit on the bed next to her. "Maybe I shouldn't've left." You don't make it a question, but it's meant as one.

"I wish you hadn't, but after what Dad told me … I get it. I wouldn't have wanted to stick around, either."

You get up and close the door, then sit next to her again. "I don't want you to be scared no more."

"Nothin's gonna make me not scared, Tim. Not after - after what he did. It's not gonna happen."

"I'm gonna make it happen."

She - for the first time in a week - reaches out to touch you, and presses her hand against your cheek. It's only then you notice she's wearing one of your spare T-shirts. "How d'you plan on doin' that, huh?"

"I'm gonna get rid of him, then you won't have to worry about him no more."

"Get rid of him?"

"I'm gonna kill him."

She pulls her hand away. "You can't do that."

"Yes, I can. And don't start this you-can't-go-killing-people bullshit, baby. I know this is a whole new ballgame, and you can not like it all you want, but you can't pretend you weren't expectin' it."

"Tim -"

"It ain't no worse than what he did to you - fuck, he deserves it for what he did to you."

"I … agree."

"Then what's the fucking problem."

She bursts in to tears, and for the first time ever, you're exasperated by them. You know she's hurting, but you're trying to do this for her - to make her feel safe, to try and stop some of the hurt. You stand up and begin to pace, counting each step as you go.

"I gotta do this, babe."

"No you don't."

"Christ, Shelley, why the fuck not, huh? Give me one good reason not to do it."

She stands, eyes blazing, and it's the first bit of life you've seen in her in almost two weeks. "Too many things can go wrong! You could get caught and end up in jail, and then what am I s'posed to do without you? Rex might be gone, but you won't be here either."

"That ain't gonna happen."

"You can't promise me that. You also can't promise that you'll even manage to get rid of him. You might wound him and get caught, and that puts you in jail and leaves him out here, ready to get revenge on you for trying to kill him." She pauses, wiping at her eyes. "And you know who the first person he's gonna come to so he can get that revenge is? It sure as hell ain't your brother."

Your hands shake at the thought, but you continue. "That won't happen."

"Yeah, he might kill you before you get the chance to kill him. Then I've got Rex wantin' to hurt me again just to get revenge on a _dead guy_, and no boyfriend around to be here for me."

"Shelley -"

"Because that's what I fucking need, Tim! I need my boyfriend to be here with me."

"I'm just tryin' to help you. Christ, Shelley, I just want you to be safe."

"No, you just wanna get your revenge."

You step closer than you have all week, and grasp her face in your hands. "No, I just don't want you to hurt anymore."

More tears fall. "Then don't do it. Please, Tim, don't do it. Just stay here with me. _Please_."

You're silent, thinking through her words that are so similar to Danny's the night before. She's partly right, though - you want to kill the guy who hurt her, but just a little bit more than that, you truly don't want her to hurt anymore. And if that means waiting when it comes to Hamilton … Christ, you'll do it. You just need her to be okay, even if that means sticking around and doing nothing where Hamilton is concerned.

For now …

"It's gonna happen, baby. Not now, but one day."

"I don't doubt it."

"And that's okay?"

"Not really." She sniffs. "As much as I want him hurt, I can't stand the idea of you getting caught or hurt. I - God, I hate myself for it, but I need you, Tim."

You know this, you've known it all along, but it makes you nervous. The longer Hamilton is around, the more he can hurt people you care about. But the person you care about most is right in front of you, begging you not to do this, and you can't disappoint her.

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><p><strong>AN:** The next chapter is the last :) Thanks for reading.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "Teardrop" by Massive Attack.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER NINETEEN<br>****March 1970**

_You__'__re stumbling into it all_

You're back in your own place, but you still crash at Shelley's three or four times a week. And when you're not there, she's with you at your own place. But only during the day and into the early evening. She never sleeps over, but you get it - you've got one bed and a couch that's too far away from your bed for her to feel comfortable. It makes things hard, not being with her at night, but she seems to think she needs to get used to sleeping alone again, so you do what you have to do.

It's not just that, though. Everything's become hard and you're pretty sure Shelley blames you for that, as well as everything else. Sometimes she looks at you like she hates you, and you can't even blame her. You still hate yourself, and you know it's entirely your fault that Hamilton did what he did to her.

You know it's entirely your fault that you can't even sleep in the same bed as your girl.

And it's not the lack of sex that bothers you. You miss being able to touch her, kiss her, simply tug at a loose strand of hair without her whole body tensing up. You can live without the sex - you hate living without the go-ahead to just kiss her every once and a while.

You don't say anything, though - you never say anything. Shelley being okay matters more than your longing to kiss her, and if not giving her more than a peck on the lips is going to make her okay, then that's what you will continue to do. Because she means that fucking much to you.

But you don't know how to do this. You don't know how to have a relationship without sex, and the fact that every so-called relationship you've ever had was based on sex sure doesn't help. It's different with Shelley - it's always been different with Shelley - but, once you got her, the sex was a pretty big part of the relationship. Now it's gone and you don't know what to do - you don't know how to treat her.

Not that you knew anyway. After what happened to her, you've started acting different toward her and you cringe every time you catch yourself doing it. You don't joke, you don't tease, you don't speak. You never talked all that much to begin with, but now you're down to one word answers because you're just waiting for the moment conversation turns to her kicking you the hell out of her house.

You can see that conversation clearly: you won't have to say fuck-all, but Shelley will yell and scream and it will be one of those few moments where it actually feels like you're around a living person again. She'll tell you everything you already know - it's your fault, she hates you, just the idea of you touching her repulses you …

Every time you put your arm around her shoulders, say something a little too carelessly, go in for a quick kiss, your heart seizes and you wait. But it never comes. Not yet, anyway.

xxxxx

She's kissing your neck and no one else is home. Sitting on her bed, back pressed against her wall, your hands hover in mid-air as you try to figure out exactly where to place them. On her thighs or hips as she straddles you seems like the most natural position, but something strange is going on and you don't know what to do.

She's kissing your neck and that in itself is strange.

This is the most physical contact you've had with her in months, and you're not complaining - Christ, you're doing all you can to not push against her and show her how much you want this - but you're unsure, worried. She's acting weird and wonderful and just plain wrong, because, sure, it's been months since Hamilton attacked her, but … it's only been months. Months with no heavy petting, no making out, and definitely no wriggling on your lap.

You stifle a groan and grab her shoulders to pull her away. There's a wild look in her eyes when she looks at you, and you're not sure this is going to end well no matter what goes down.

"What're you doin, kid?"

She looks hurt. "Kid?"

"C'mon, Shelley, this … somethin's goin' on. What is it?"

"Nothin's goin' on. I just wanna be with my boyfriend." She pauses, watching you carefully. "You are still my boyfriend, ain't you?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you stop?"

You don't know how to answer that. Slowly, you run your hands down her back, and the way her eyes close makes you think maybe she really does want this. But then she looks at you again and you're just not sure.

"You want me, don't ya?"

You sigh. "Yeah."

"You sure, Tim? 'Cause you haven't touched me in months."

"Shelley, I -"

She kisses you, full on the mouth, and her hands tangle in your hair. And you have to kiss her back - it's impossible for you to not kiss her back. Her tongue is in your mouth, and this time you don't hesitate to gently squeeze her hips. She moans into your mouth before pulling back to breath against your lips.

"Yes, Tim, I want this. I do."

She sounds so sure and she looks so sure and, goddamn it, she feels _so sure_. You kiss her again, and flip her so she's on her back and you're balanced above her. She doesn't stop you - not when you thumb the skin beneath her blouse, not when you leave her lips and attach your mouth to her neck, not when your fingers brush against the side of her covered breast.

But when you can't stop yourself from resting between her open legs, she says your name.

"Tim."

"Mmm." You murmur against the soft skin of her neck, nuzzling it with your nose. You had forgotten how good she smelled. You kiss a little lower, just reaching her collarbone.

"Tim, stop."

"What is it, baby?"

This time when she says your name, her voice cracks. "Tim, please, you have to stop."

You stop. She's rigid beneath you, her hands no longer in your hair, and when you look up, her eyes are full of unshed tears. She hasn't cried in weeks. You climb off the bed immediately.

"Oh hell. Oh _fuck_."

Tears fall, and she begins to cry in earnest. "You need to go," she sobs. "Please, just go."

"Okay. Okay." You grab your jacket, but stop at the door. "Kid, I … sorry."

xxxxx

**April 1970**

You didn't go back for four days, and when you did, Shelley smiled at you like nothing happened. But wasn't _that_ smile, and it's not even remotely warm or light. It's just a smile to pretend that everything's okay when, really, everything's falling to fucking pieces.

You didn't know how to treat her before, and now you have no fucking clue. It's been weeks since you've touched her, and you're pretty sure that's just going to last. You can't bring yourself to hold her hand, to kiss her cheek, to wrap a strand of her hair around your finger. The most you can do is sit next to her on the couch when you watch TV, and try not to tense when she rests her head on your shoulder.

What happened in her bedroom that day isn't going to happen again, and you can't tell if you're happy or disappointed about that. You sure don't want her to start crying like she did, but, fuck, being able to kiss and touch her again sure had been something. Looking at your hand and her hand - resting only inches apart on the old couch - you decide you're glad it won't be happening again. You'll take no more tears over kissing and touching any day.

The movie on TV isn't halfway done, but Shelley looks at you and shuffles away.

"I'm tired. I think I might head to bed."

"Yeah, okay. I oughtta get goin' anyway. Said I'd meet up with Danny and Henry tonight." Not only do you no longer touch your girlfriend, but you now lie to her, too.

She walks you to the door, just like she does nearly every night. Nearly, because you don't see her every day now. You stayed away for four days after what happened in her bedroom, and now you will go one or two days before coming back. You wouldn't do it if she seem to care.

"G'night," she says, closing and locking the door behind her.

It's only eight-thirty, but she never lets you stay late anymore, and always makes sure you're gone before she goes to bed.

xxxxx

You don't even officially break up, but it still hurts more than you care to admit. You haven't seen her in a month, and it's not because you don't know how to treat her, it's not because you can't touch her, and it's not because you're not getting laid. It's because every time you go to her house, she's busy, or isn't home, or doesn't feel up to company.

It's all bullshit, but you just don't understand why she does it. At least, you didn't, not for a while.

You thought maybe you had said or done something, maybe you had upset her in some way, but you know it's not the case. You've been nothing but the perfect boyfriend no one ever expected you could be.

Except once, and the fact that she had to tell you more than once to stop still makes your fucking skin crawl. You can't blame her for pushing you away after the way you had kissed and touched her when she obviously wasn't ready, and you can't even blame her for not dumping your ass properly. Or sooner.

In fact, you're surprised it lasted this long. Three months since she was hurt, and she's only just realising what a fuck-up of a boyfriend she's got. You might have acted like the perfect boyfriend in that time, but, the truth is, you were just useless. You didn't know how to help, and now you don't even have the chance to help.

You've been let go, and you can't help the small bit of relief you feel.

But you miss her. Christ, you fucking miss her like crazy, and nothing helps. Not the whiskey you've got stored in your apartment, not the fight you get into with Robbie Riley, not the rumour you hear that Shelley's back at work now. That's improvement - she's improving - but it does nothing but make you miss her.

You're so fucking pathetic, and over a fucking girl, that you can't even deal. Drinking until you pass out seems to work better.

But one morning, six weeks after the last time you actually got to see Shelley, and ever longer since you made a promise you clearly no longer need to keep, you wake up and know exactly what will help. Lying in bed, trying to ignore the pounding hangover, you think through your list of contacts and wonder who will be the most hush-hush about what you need.

Because if there's one thing that will make you feel better, it's killing Rex Hamilton.

**To be continued ...**

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Thanks for reading. Keep an eye out for _Until the Sun Comes Up_, my next fic :)


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